


Shadows of the City

by RuminantMonk



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: AU, Class Issues, F/F, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuminantMonk/pseuds/RuminantMonk
Summary: Give it even the slightest chance and the city of Midgar will eat you alive. Aerith and Tifa meet in the slums in the years leading up to the game.Eventual Tifa x Aerith, but very much a slowburn





	1. Do No Harm

Tifa doesn’t know why she’s nervous. Even through the haze of pain, she’s finding it difficult to concentrate on anything except the coiling and uncoiling sensation in her stomach. But before she has a chance to overthink her anxiety, the door to the room opens and Aerith walks in. 

“It’s been awhile,” Aerith says. It’s hardly an exaggeration; they haven't seen each other in months. Aerith sets down her rucksack and fishes out a beat up first aid kit and two green orbs of materia. 

“I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner.” So far, Aerith has only acknowledged her through speech and hasn't looked at her once. Even though they're not exactly friends (are they?), a small part of her can't help but feel hurt. 

“What took you so long?”

Aerith still doesn’t look up as she rifles through her kit. “My mom caught me sneaking out. I had to come up a believable excuse. And it’s three in the morning, Tifa. There are hardly any trains running this late at night.” 

She doesn’t sound angry, just tired. Tifa immediately regrets her impatience. 

After clicking the materia into her silver bangle, Aerith pulls up a chair and finally looks at her square in the face. Tifa had forgotten how green her eyes were.

“Oh, Tifa …” Aerith gently grasps her chin and turns it from one side to the other to examine the wounds on her face. 

Tifa doesn’t tell her that it feels just as bad as it looks. She’s pretty sure her left cheekbone is fractured—there’s bruising and swelling below her eye, which itself is blotchy with red sclera. Her bottom lip is badly split. Talking makes it worse, every spoken word accompanied by the sharp taste of blood. Which is fine, because she’s in no mood to talk.

“What happened?” Aerith has moved onto the long gash down her right thigh. Tifa knows it’s deep because the bleeding hasn't stayed. Fucking SOLDIER. One inch to the left and the carbon steel blade would have severed her femoral artery. If not for her reflexes, she wouldn't be here right now; she'd have bled out on that miserable, dirty floor.

“Barret didn’t tell you?”

Aerith soaks a piece of cotton with antiseptic. The chemical odor prickles at Tifa's nose. She braces herself on the edge of her seat. This is going to hurt. 

“He never tells me anything. You know that.” 

The sting is sudden and hot. The pain makes her stomach churn and her head feel light. Tifa grits her teeth. “He’s just trying to protect you. The less you know, the better.”

Aerith cleans the cut for what seems like an eternity until she finally sets down the blood-soaked gauze and begins threading a needle for what Tifa can only assume are stitches. The laceration is severe, nearly bone deep. Even she knows restore materia isn't capable of repairing deep tissue wounds. “But I do know. I watch the news.” 

The needle punctures skin and Tifa can’t keep the anger from bubbling up her throat. “The news isn’t always right!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Aerith snaps back. “And please, hold still.” Impatience has added an edge to her normally pleasant voice.

She resumes carefully stitching the cut. Her hand is careful, light. Still, it hurts. Tifa hisses. “I’m sorry,” Aerith says quietly, her tone softening. There’s never any anesthetic in Aerith’s kit as she isn't exactly a licensed medical professional. And as far as Tifa knows, there’s no materia that helps dull pain. She half-wishes she’d brought down a bottle of brown liquor from upstairs.

“So will you tell me what happened?” 

Tifa takes a shaky breath. “Shinra’s started setting up recruitment centers in the sector school districts—the poorest ones. They only just finished construction on the first center a few days ago. We wanted to get in early, do something about it.”

Aerith hums knowingly and snips the loose ends of knotted thread with tiny scissors. The soothing sensation of curative magic warms over Tifa's skin. “I thought you were being taken off the field, though. At least that’s what you promised last time I saw you.”

She’d been in bad shape then, too. Though not nearly as bad as tonight.

“I know. But Jessie was nervous about her new prototype and asked me to come. I couldn't say no.” Tifa knows she needs to choose her words carefully. Aerith has never been one to miss a thing. She's learned that much over the past two years.

Spikes of intense cold needle into her broken cheekbone. When she looks up, she finds Aerith staring at her with an intensity that cuts through the sickly green glow of the ice and restore spells working in tandem. “New prototype of what?” Nothing ever gets past her.

Tifa feels the bits of bone in her face slide into place and knit together. She takes a deep breath. “A bomb.”

_“What?”_

The words come pouring out of her mouth all at once. “Aerith, raids aren’t enough. We need to think bigger if we want to make a real impact. Barret says that if we want to cripple Shinra, we have to hit them where it hurts—cut off resources, destroy investments before they have a chance to see any returns, because if they care about anything at all, it’s money—”

Aerith shakes her head and holds a finger to her lips. “Okay, okay. Just ... stop talking so much. You're making your lip worse.” 

“Then stop asking me questions!” Pain cuts through her mouth like a thin blade and leaves the taste of iron heavy and wet on her tongue. Fresh blood trickles down her chin. “Ow …”

Aerith dabs at her lip with gauze. “I want you to stay pretty, okay? Please.”

Green light undulates once more. “Please _yourself_.” Tifa knows she’s being difficult. “You just want me to shut up.”

For the first time since she’s arrived, Aerith smiles. “Why not both? Anyway, Barret’s right. Shinra certainly doesn’t value lives, at least not beyond their monetary worth.” 

As Tifa is shrugging off her jacket to reveal the two gunshot wounds below her left collarbone, Aerith asks another question: “Do you?”

“Do I what?” 

Aerith helps her peel the bloody undershirt up and over her head. “You know what I mean.”

Tifa crosses her bare arms. A chill runs down her spine. She shivers. “I do,” she says quietly. “You know I do.”

Aerith doesn’t respond, her attention turning towards the more pressing issue of Tifa's wounds—two clean holes wet and oozing with red. She’s lucky the bullets went straight through. Aerith blots more gauze with antiseptic. As she moves to press it to her injuries, she freezes. Green eyes flicker down to her chest and Tifa watches as they follow the diagonal path of the ugly raised scar that stretched from collarbone to hip. Tifa realizes Aerith's never seen her scar before. Neither says a word. 

Aerith resumes blotting, dabbing, wiping, healing. Her body has endured enough pain in one night that it eventually plateaus into an unpleasant throbbing sensation. When Aerith speaks again, her voice is quiet, resigned.

“You still haven’t told me how you got in this state.”

It was simple: their plan had gone wrong. So wrong that frankly, she's lucky she got out alive. The pain is nothing if she still has her life.

“We ran into SOLDIERS. Two of them. We didn’t know but I guess they’d planned a late night shipment of mako and materia for the Sector 3 recruitment center.” Tifa doesn’t have to explain the value of the cargo or why Shinra needed so much muscle for a single delivery. “We had no idea. After we planted the bomb, we got blindsided as we were leaving. One SOLDIER is bad enough, but two? Jessie’s never been great in the field. We didn’t have any back-up. It was just me.”

Aerith clucks her tongue in disapproval. “So, no one else got hurt?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think?”

“Aerith, we staked out the place for weeks. There weren’t supposed to be any guards or construction workers in the building when we … we had no way of knowing. I don’t think anyone got caught in the blast.” The combined weight of fatigue and pain was slowly but surely wearing her down. 

“What are you going to do if Jessie asks you to help again?”

Tifa meets her gaze. Making eye contact brings a new onslaught of guilt and it’s almost enough to make her regret it. “I don’t know.” She’s being honest. She really is. 

Nimble fingers tape down strips of clean gauze over her still-tender injuries. 

“What about you? As far as everyone in Avalanche is concerned, you don’t owe us anything. Not anymore. You don’t have to be involved.”

“I _am_ involved. Whether or not you like it, that much is true."

“And I’m saying you don’t have to be.” Even though she feels a little bit crazy and a little bit raw, Tifa needs her to know this. This time it’s Aerith who avoids her eyes. “Aerith, it’s been years. I know how you feel about all of this. So why are you still here?”

And as though she’d willed it, Aerith looks up at her. Something curious dances in those clear green eyes and her expression is unreadable. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Tifa hears the medical kit close with a soft click.

Aerith reaches out to touch her face, examining her handiwork. 

“I’m happy to help.”

“Are you?”

Aerith’s hands fold over her own. They’re stained in places with her own blood, but they’re warm and soft. 

“As long as you need me, I’m here.” She smiles sadly. “But that doesn’t mean I like seeing you like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read my fair share of "what if Aerith and Tifa met before the game?" fics and thought I'd give it a try myself. I've always wanted to explore these characters' relationships to the city, as well as dig into the darker, seedier corners of Midgar. The slums always seemed like a pretty unforgiving place and I was curious to see how Tifa and Aerith navigated the more dangerous aspects. I was very happy when the newest remake trailer implied that Tifa was struggling with ambivalence in regards to Avalanche's more violent activities and the casualties that may have ensued from their actions.


	2. Two Years Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tifa and Aerith meet.

Hideki had no love for Shinra. But he didn’t exactly hate them either. He was ex-Shinra, a former civic engineer turned architect who’d defected from Wutai after the war. A true pragmatist, he saw no value in loyalty to a lost cause, especially after Shinra had seen value in him. It was also the reason he’d agreed to work with Avalanche. 

It was supposed to be a simple handoff—a sizable amount of gil preloaded onto an untraceable credit chip in exchange for blueprints, information, and contacts that would help them build out a bunker beneath Seventh Heaven. Somehow, Tifa had found herself pulled into a rather lengthy conversation, if you could even call it that. Hideki liked to talk. Most likely, Tifa guessed, because his tongue was loose with liquor almost every hour of the day. 

For ten years, he'd been a mid-level engineer for Shinra until the day he fell off some scaffolding and hurt his back while overseeing construction of the company’s new headquarters. Shinra didn’t do worker’s comp, at least not for middle management and especially not for an employee who had a habit of being drunk on the job. Before he knew it, he was out of work and living in the Sector 6 slums. 

Still, his pragmatism continued to reap rewards. As a lower plate contractor, Hideki was expensive for a reason: beyond being a capable architect, he knew which junkyards and scrap piles bore the best resources. Shinra’s greed and secrecy extended to its trash, but Hideki knew where to find their disposal sites. In them was a wealth of coveted materials: copper piping, circuit boards, and obsolete security tech. 

As he handed her a map marked with outer ring disposal sites, Hideki addressed her in Wutaian. _Which side?_ This caught her off guard—he must have noticed something in the shape of her eyes, her dark hair. _My mother’s_ , she answered back, a bit embarrassed. Despite her flawless accent, her fluency had regressed to a rudimentary level after her mother’s death. The sandalwood incense burning in his cramped studio apartment reminded her of her mother’s traditional memorial service. With this intrusion of memory, Tifa hastily made an excuse to leave. 

On the walk back to Sector 7, Tifa felt the long shadows of frustration reach deep into her thoughts. Barret still didn’t trust her enough to include her in missions beyond low stakes pick-ups and drop-offs. At just a few months shy of 18, she was too young, too inexperienced. At least that's what he said. But Jessie was around her age and they’d joined up around the same time. An unwelcome thought snagged like a hook on wool: maybe it was that Jessie had more to offer. A self-taught tech wiz with an uncanny ability to focus, while Tifa only had her fists and feet. Still, she could fight. Better than most.

Was he questioning her commitment? No person had more reason than she did. No one had lost more than she had, with the exception of Barret, and in her mind, this shared understanding between them should have naturally given way to the kind of trust she so craved. The scar under her shirt was a constant reminder of everything Shinra had stolen from her. It still ached on nights she couldn’t sleep. 

She was tired of walking in on them—Biggs and Wedge and Jessie—huddled around and whispering, their low voices dropping into silence at the sight of her presence.

Even her field clothes made her feel stupid and small. A hoodie with cat ears, large pink headphones stamped with paw prints, a miniature backpack—it gave her the appearance of a harmless lower plate teen and even though she knew the disguise was effective, it still made her feel ridiculous. She wasn’t a child.

If it was a question of experience, she was a fast learner. Midgar had been her home for over two years now. She may have been a touch naïve when she first arrived, but she’d since learned to steel herself. Hiding away her trust and ignoring the impulse to help hadn’t been easy. Tifa remembered the time she tried to help a woman who’d slipped on the subway platform. A broken nose—that’s what she'd gotten in return. Later, while she cried into Barret’s arms, he’d explained that the woman didn’t know her and a stranger’s touch was unwelcome. The people who grew up here are different, they’re not like you and me. How can you be so sure, she’d asked. 

So she spent the next few years unlearning all the Nibelheim kindness and generosity she'd been raised with. There just wasn’t room for that here. The city had dulled the softer parts of her and sharpened others and now, armed with a sort of cultivated indifference, she could blend in with the rest of them.

Even with fatigue itching at her bones, she remained alert, observant. Sector 6 was one of the more populated slums, residents and commuters brushing shoulders to browse storefronts, eat at street stalls, and squeeze onto crowded trains. Pick pockets roamed free on the dirty sidewalks and the back alleys overflowed with small-time dealers and traffickers. Everyday violence was a common sight. 

Over the years, Tifa had been forced to learn new ways of fighting. Zangan’s lessons hadn’t prepared her for the viciousness of Midgar. Enemies came from the shadows and honor was nowhere to be found. And because everyone in the city had something to hide, she’d become skilled at sizing people up. She knew how to look for signs, like whether a man was hiding a knife in his jacket or something else entirely. There was no such thing as a fair fight because really, fairness didn’t exist as a concept in the slums. Deep down, she didn’t blame them. 

Tifa walked past what she thought was a large bag of trash. As she got closer, the shape began to move until she realized it was the silhouette of a man bent over, vomiting into a chainlink fence. The lower plate was a sprawl of shadows. What wasn’t swallowed and choked by darkness was made ghastly or unnatural by harsh neons and fluorescents. 

Tifa looked up. A sky with limits, stunted by metal, with nothing to breathe but stale, stagnant air. No clouds, no sun, not a difference between night and day. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen rain. 

As she passed under a neon blue sign—a buzzing, flicking medical cross—she made a mental note to pick up more vitamin D supplements. Midgar held a certain kind of beauty, she supposed. A landscape of glowing neon, every color on the spectrum illuminating concrete and reflecting off metal. And even here down amongst the grime, people made an effort to make a home. Dented shipping containers lovingly restored and painted over in wild animal patterns. Strips of nylon salvaged from hurricane tents stitched and sewn into orange and silver patchwork signs that boasted the best dumplings in all eight sectors (according to whom, she wondered).

Tifa pulled out her swipe card. The Sector 7 turnstiles were just up ahead across the street. As she stepped onto asphalt, she noticed a sleek, black car slowly drive past. A model S-10. A surveillance car. They made frequent rounds at the sector gates namely to control trafficking: drugs, people, stolen mako. Avalanche had pieced together the schedule for each sector just a few months ago.

She glanced at her watch. The next car wasn’t due for another two hours. A spark of excitement ran down her spine. It was a possible lead. 

Tifa could hear Barret and Biggs arguing in her head. _Blend in, don’t draw attention to yourself, and always work in pairs._ On the other hand, _if you find a lead, chase it._ Zangan won out in the end: _follow your instincts and listen to your body._ Something in the pit of her stomach was telling her to follow that car.

Tifa pulled the cat-eared hood over her head. Luckily, due to rush hour, the car was moving slowly enough to trail on foot. Every few blocks, she stopped and pretended to browse merchant stands and food carts. Eventually, the car pulled onto unpaved dirt and picked up speed. She hid behind a stack of broken pallets and watched until it came to a stop in front of what appeared to be a dilapidated church. 

Two people in blue suits exited the vehicle. Turks. A bald man wearing sunglasses and a woman, red hair chopped into blunt bob. They entered the church. When wooden doors closed behind them, she ran and quickly found cover behind a pile of twisted metal. Tifa tied a bandana over her face and waited, anticipation alight in her every muscle.

The Turks emerged with a girl between them, each leading her forcefully by the arm. The girl was young, probably around her age, and wearing a pink sundress. An ordinary girl. What did Shinra want with someone like her? Who was she that they needed to send in two intelligence officers to retrieve her? Whoever she was, she was valuable. And putting up quite the fight. The girl struggled every step of the way, pulling and thrashing as they dragged her down the steps. Her elbow caught the woman’s chin, hard. Tifa held her breath. The woman slapped the girl across the face with the full force of her body, hard enough to draw blood.

To Tifa’s surprise, the girl didn't stop struggling. She turned and kicked the man in the shin. He doubled over, releasing his hold on her arm for a split second—an opportunity she took to headbutt the woman in the face. But before she could get away, the woman, nose bloodied, caught her and wrestled her to the ground. They scrambled to their feet. A switchblade materialized in the girl’s hand and a baton in the woman’s. Tifa had a bad feeling. In one smooth move, the baton knocked the knife out of the girl’s grasp and collided with the side of her head on the backswing. The girl crumpled into a messy heap. Tifa flinched. That would likely leave a concussion.

Tifa felt her chest tighten as the woman drew back the baton. Turks normally didn’t lose their cool like this. At least, they weren’t supposed to. A gloved hand caught the woman’s arm before she had a chance to bring it down over the girl's skull. The man had regained his balance. There was shouting. 

Now was her chance. She rushed into the chaos. The two Turks turned around, surprised at her sudden appearance. Tifa dodged the man’s left hook. She pivoted and aimed a fist at his kidney. He side-stepped, she punched air. The man was a fighter and he was leaving her no openings. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the woman make a clumsy swing of her baton. Tifa ducked and swept her feet from under her. Unbeknownst to her, this left an opening. The man drove an elbow down on her shoulder. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. 

She spotted the girl’s switchblade a few feet away. Tifa remembered that the Turks also worked in pairs and were loyal to no one but themselves. She grabbed the knife and slashed it across the woman’s left hamstring as she was getting up. Not enough to kill or even badly wound, but enough to keep her from running.

The woman fell to the ground with a shout and Tifa turned her attention to the girl who was still puddled on the ground.

“Get up and run.” To her credit, the girl followed her lead. 

They ran without looking back. Tifa didn’t hear footsteps behind them; her gambit had worked. Still, she suspected they would call for back-up. She had to think fast. They zigged and zagged, turning corners blindly until arriving at a deserted children’s park. 

If they were going to make it back to Sector 7, she had to ditch her outfit. The sector gates were always heavily equipped with cameras. Tifa unzipped her hoodie and removed her bandana. Tossed both under a rusted slide. Fast fingers quickly undid the girl’s braid until it was loose down her back. She wiped away the blood trickling down the girl’s temple. 

“W-who are you?”

Tifa pulled her backpack back over her shoulders. “I’ll tell you when we’re safe. Right now we need to get to Sector 7.”

The girl frowned, dazed.

“I want to help. Just trust me, okay?”

The girl’s eyes were an unsettling shade of green, bordering on alien. Tifa could tell that she was fighting against her better judgment. That made two of them. 

“Okay.”

When they made it back to Seventh Heaven an hour later, Tifa caught holy hell from Barret. 

“What were you thinking? Why did you bring her here? You could’ve led those Turks straight to our base—you realize that? _Turks._ ” He turned to the girl, whose name, they learned, was Aerith. “And what does Shinra want with you anyway?”

Aerith didn’t respond and continued pressing the ice pack to her temple. 

It was possible Tifa had made a mistake. Maybe this was no lead at all. The girl hadn’t told her anything about Shinra, the Turks, or her relationship to them. She’d barely even spoken about herself, aside from giving them her name. Perhaps it was the concussion. 

“Barret, stop. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

He shook his head in disapproval and, to her relief, stomped off, leaving them alone at the bar. Tifa turned to Aerith. “I’d let you sleep on my couch, but with that concussion, I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep you awake.”

Aerith set the ice pack back down on the bar. “No, that’s alright.” She stroked the silver bangle on her wrist. An orb of material was fastened in one of its dimples. “I have restore materia I can use.”

Tifa sat up straight. “You’re a healer?”

“In a way, yes.” She took a long sip of water. 

Tifa remembered the switchblade in her pocket. She slid it across the bar. “You probably shouldn’t bring a knife to a fight unless you know how to use it.” Aerith picked up the knife and looked at it, her expression numb. Tifa continued, not knowing how else to fill the awkward silence between them. “Otherwise, chances are it’ll be used against you.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Aerith’s reticence was making Tifa anxious.

“You should stay the night. They might be searching Sector 6 right now.”

Aerith nodded. The next morning, she was gone without so much as a thank you.

—

Aerith walked into Seventh Heaven a week later. Tifa was surprised to see her. She could tell by the look on her face that Aerith had put two and two together and worked out who she was and what it was that she and her friends did.

Aerith made her an offer. “You and … your friends, if you ever get hurt and find yourself in need of a healer, just give me a call.” She slid over a slip of paper across the bar. There was a number written on it. “Any time you need me.”

Tifa was a little pleased with herself. Her recklessness had actually amounted to something. But that warm feeling quickly curdled into concern. “Have they come back to bother you?” The question of why the Turks had tried to abduct her went unanswered, but Tifa still didn't feel it was her place to ask. 

“No, it’s been taken care of.”

“How do you mean?”

Aerith crossed her arms. “I know one of them. He stopped by to visit. He usually does every few months.”

This was a surprise. 

“That woman? She was a rookie. I was told she was placed ‘on leave.’ They usually never resort to strong-arming, at least not with me,” she said matter-of-factly. “Anyway, there’s nothing to worry about. At least not for a while.”

Tifa was a little incredulous. The Turks were infamous for completing every job, no matter the terms, no matter the means. “How can you believe that?”

Aerith shrugged. “I just do.” Before she turned to leave, she motioned at the note. “Remember. Anytime you need me. I can be discreet.”

When the door shut behind Aerith, Tifa couldn't help but break into a smile. She was allowed on the field after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love worldbuilding. Part of why I'm so excited about the remake is because I've always wanted to explore every corner of Midgar.


	3. Precious Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something lighter. Tifa and Aerith spend a day together.

Aerith has never been to Seventh Heaven during the day. She worries for a minute—are they even open? To her relief, she finds the doors unlocked. 

The bar is empty except for Jessie, who is seated at one of the tables, tinkering with a small pile of metal bits and wires. There’s a small radio next to her playing tinny music. “Oh, hey, Aerith.” She’s wearing glasses and holding a pair of pliers. 

Remembering what Tifa told her the other night, Aerith eyes the spread suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” Jessie motions to a tangled mess of wires. “I’m rewiring a broken speaker I found in the dumpster. That way the bar can finally have some real music.”

Aerith feels a little guilty, mostly relieved. “Is Tifa around? Do you know if she’s feeling better?”

Jessie removes her glasses. “Oh, hm—“ she looks around. “I think she’s still sleeping, actually. She’s been sleeping in a lot this week.”

“Oh.”

“Is her leg bothering her?” It occurs to Aerith that she could have come by before for a check-up.

Jessie hums. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes she gets like this.”

Like what, exactly, Aerith wonders. 

Jessie pushes her chair back and gets up. “Do you want me to go wake her up?”

Aerith shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll go check in on her.”

She's not sure what compels her to say this.

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Jessie sits back down and puts her glasses back on. “Her room’s down the hall, to the left. She can get pretty cranky in the morning, though, so watch out.”

Except it isn’t morning, Aerith thinks. When she reaches Tifa’s room, her hand hovers over the doorknob. Why is she here? Before she has a chance to change her mind, she opens the door.

This is her first time in Tifa’s room. It’s small, neat. It’s dark except for a small nightlight plugged into the wall opposite the bed. The furnishings are spare: a steel office desk dented in places sits in the corner, along with an old swivel chair. A denim jacket hangs off the back of the chair, as well as a pair of worn leather gloves. On the table are a short stack of books and what appears to be a journal. 

An orange pill bottle catches her eye—what are those? Aerith resists the urge to read the label. Standing in the room already feels like an intrusion. 

A digital clock on the floor reads: 2:32pm. 

Aerith turns her attention to the bed. A stuffed moogle lays on its side near the foot of the bed, as though it had been kicked. Aerith smiles a little. 

Though she can barely make out her features in the dark, Aerith can see the tension written all over Tifa’s sleeping face. Bare arms are tangled up in sheets, hands clinging to them as if her life depended on it. This is a girl who’s grown up too fast. A feeling with which Aerith is altogether too familiar. They’ve never discussed their past, either of them. It’s partly why she’s here. Tifa shifts in her sleep. Aerith wonders if she’s dreaming.

She sits down at the edge of the bed and gently touches Tifa on the arm. At first, Tifa startles—“Hey, it’s just me.”

Tifa rubs at her eyes. “Aerith?” Her voice is thick with sleep. She sits up slowly. Her blanket falls off her shoulders. “What—what are you doing here?” 

Aerith isn’t sure, really. Eventually, she finds her voice. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I wanted to check up on you.” That isn’t a lie, at least. “How are you feeling?”

Tifa clears her throat softly. “I’m okay, I guess.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Okay. Better.”

“Do you need a touch-up?”

Tifa pushes off the covers and pulls her legs up to her chest. Her movements are smooth, feline. “No. Thanks. I think it’s healing okay.”

Aerith doesn’t know what else to say. She smooths a wrinkle from the covers. 

Tifa rests her chin on her knees. “So … what’s up?”

“I thought it’d be nice to spend some time together. Outside of, you know, me healing you.”

“Oh.”

Aerith second-guesses herself for a moment, but then does the only thing she knows how to do in situations like this: barrel on ahead. “I have some errands to run and I’d rather not do them alone.” She feels a bit manipulative, making it sound like a favor. But she knows her strategy has worked when she sees Tifa’s expression soften just a little. 

“And if there’s anything on your checklist, we can take care of that, too.”

Tifa nods. “Okay, sure. Let me put some clothes on.”

Aerith waits outside and makes small talk with Jessie while she waits for Tifa. When she emerges, the first thing Aerith notices is that she’s wearing her hair down. Up until now, she’s only ever seen it up in a ponytail. It’s … pretty. She wants to tell her as much.

They say good-bye to Jessie and leave. 

“So, where are we headed?” Tifa asks. 

“Sector 6. But let’s get some food first. Do you know of any places that are good around here?”

Tifa hums thoughtfully. “Yeah, sure. There’s a pretty good sandwich stand not too far from here.”

Aerith claps her hands together. “Perfect. I can get some lunch and you can get some breakfast.”

They walk past two children kicking a rubber ball back and forth. It bounces in their direction. Tifa catches it and punts it back.

“Nice kick. Speaking of lunch …” Aerith starts. “Do you normally sleep in this late?”

Tifa avoids her gaze and runs a hand through her hair. “Um, not always. It’s just that I don’t really sleep well for most of the week because of the bar’s hours. I like to catch up on sleep on my days off.”

“Ah. How late do you usually work?” 

“Last call is at 3. But Avalanche,” she mouths the word silently. “Has been working on a new project since last week, so …”

Aerith doesn’t like the sound of that. Tifa sidesteps a puddle. The toe of her boot breaks the surface of the water, causing it to ripple blue and yellow, reflected neon signs trapped and trembling.

They walk in silence for a while.

“Sorry,” Tifa says. “I’m a little out of it right now. It feels like my head is full of water.”

“That’s okay. Food should help.”

They arrive at the stand and find a small table under some tarp. Dirty rainwater and other runoff had a tendency to trickle down through leaks in the Upper Plate. They both order rolled egg sandwiches and the woman working the stand brings them coffee and tea, the former for Tifa, latter for herself.

Aerith blows into the steaming hot liquid in her waxed paper cup. “So, Tifa. I don’t know much about you. Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

Tifa blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I want the gossip. Are you dating anyone?” Aerith keeps her tone light and playful.

The expression on Tifa’s face changes from surprise to bemusement. She shakes her head. 

“No? Not even Biggs? Wedge?” 

“Oh, god no.”

“Jessie? She’s cute.”

Tifa laughs. “No. She _is_ cute, but no. Jessie’s like a sister to me. A slightly annoying, younger sister.” 

The cook arrives with their food. The sandwiches are neat and square, with the edges cut off. Thick slices of soft, white bread cradle a layer of light yellow egg.

“What about you?”

“Me?” The answer comes out muffled. She has to chew before she can properly answer. “No. Not for … let’s see, three years now.”

Tifa nods and takes a bite from her sandwich. 

“He just up and left and never called me again. I should have known better. He was in SOLDIER, first class. Everyone loves SOLDIERs.” It surprises Aerith to find her chest tightening at this brief recollection. Even after all these years when she thought she was done mourning him. Of course, she leaves out the part about feeling him die from a distance. When he returned to the Planet, it was like one color had changed into another. Purple to green. Always green. 

She switches topics. “So, how long have you lived in Midgar? I can tell you’re not from here.”

Tifa’s eyebrows arch. “How can you tell?”

Aerith shrugs. “It’s just a feeling. Something in your eyes. You can always tell.”

“Well, you’re right. I’ve been here three years now. What about you? Did you grow up here?”

“I’m afraid not. Fifteen years and counting.”

“Wow. That’s a long time. Where are you from originally?”

“A small town far up north.” She doesn’t say more beyond that. Tifa gives her a curious look. “You?”

“A small town far west, like across the ocean far.”

They’re both being vague. The cook arrives to clear their plates. Tifa places a handful of gil on the table. “I got this. Consider this a thanks for last time.”

This is a pleasant surprise. “What a lady. Well, I won’t say no. Thank you.” They stand up. “I need to pick up some groceries. The night market in Sector 6 should be setting up soon. Let’s head there?”

“Sure. I have some things I need to pick up for the bar. We just started serving food.” 

“Fun!”

They talk a little more on the walk over to Sector 6, and though it takes them a while to get there, their stilted back-and-forth eases into something more comfortable. Aerith can feel Tifa’s guard begin to drop. It’s almost imperceptible, like watching a flower open its petals under dawn’s slow light.

The night market is bustling. String lights zip and zag overhead, illuminating the various stands and carts with soft, golden light. Lower Plate night markets are where merchants cut their losses, hocking leftover stock from the far superior Upper Plate day markets. But the prices are cheap, even if the goods are imperfect.

Sweet yams from Wutai, green beans and butter potatoes from Kalm, and slightly bruised stone fruit and spotted bananas from the coast. Some of the carts carry homemade goods made in the Lower Plate: cans of pickled cabbage and jugs of strong malted barley. It’s her turn to cook dinner this week and Aerith fills her rucksack with all manner of vegetable, carefully picking through the wilted and bruised produce for what looks the freshest. 

Tifa hefts a sack of potatoes into her backpack, along with two cartons of eggs. They pause at a stand that sells spirits so Tifa can purchase a bottle of shochu imported from Wutai. It looks pricey. “It’s a gift," she says to Aerith. 

Their next stop is a video store deep in the heart of Wall Market. They walk past a construction site where temporary walls are plastered with Shinra fliers that bear the company’s slogan: “All Shall Prosper.” Someone’s gone through the trouble of vandalizing each and every one of them with sprawling black marker: “ ~~All~~ None Shall Prosper.”

“When does Midgar start to feel like home?” Tifa asks her.

“Hm?” Aerith shifts her shoulders. Her bag is heavy.

“You’ve been here 15 years now … when does it start feeling like home?”

Aerith isn’t really sure. Because she doesn’t know what home feels like, not really. But she tries to guess. “I think when I started growing flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know? That’s my job. And my hobby.”

Tifa’s look of surprise gives way to one of mild confusion. “How do you grow flowers in the slums? There’s no sunlight down here.”

“You’d be surprised. I can show you later today before you go home.” The prospect of bringing Tifa to her garden fills her with excitement, the kind that quietly builds from the bottom of your stomach, warm and tingling. “Anyway, Midgar started feeling more like a place I could call home when I decided to carve out space for myself.” The city was unrelenting. What you wanted you had to take for yourself or make with your own hands.

Tifa turns to look at her. “Sometimes I think it’d be nice to spruce up the bar. I never really imagined myself running a place like Seventh Heaven, but I suppose I haven’t really given it a chance.”

Aerith nods. “That sounds like a nice idea. I could give you some flowers to brighten it up—free of charge, of course.”

“Flowers, huh? I’ll believe it when I see it.” Her tone turns playful. 

The video rental store is tucked away between an arms dealer and an electronics repair shop. Aerith has been coming here for years, borrowing tapes from a rather limited collection of action, romance, and drama movies. Most of the selection is dated; the store hasn’t had anything new come in in years, but she never minds re-watching her favorites. They’ve worked out a deal, she and the owner: a bundle of flowers he can take home to his little girl (five years old and sick with a persistent cough so common in the slums) for two tapes at a time. This time, she’s brought him bluebells. 

Aerith finds Tifa browsing a shelf of romantic comedies. “I thought you’d be in the action section.”

“Oh,” Tifa hastily pushes a videotape back in its place. “It’s nothing.”

Aerith smiles, mischievous. “It’s not nothing. Just unexpected, that’s all. I like that”

Tifa hides her face. Teasing her is too easy. Aerith takes the video back off the shelf. “My treat. Just don’t forget to return it by the end of the week. I don’t think he accepts flowers for late fees.” 

“Are you sure?” The expression on her face makes her look young, like her age. It’s something rare. 

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

They leave Wall Market soon after. Tifa wants to stop by an associate’s house to drop off the bottle of shochu she’d purchased earlier. It’s only when they pass by the broken remains of Shinra’s abandoned highway project that Aerith realizes they’re getting closer to the Sector 6 reactor. Anxiety spikes in her chest.

They pass by a large pool of some liquid substance locked behind a stretch of chainlink fence. She starts to feel queasy.

“What is that?” she asks Tifa.

“It’s a chemical waste dump. It funnels runoff from the reactor. I try to avoid it late at night. Sometimes traffickers and gangs dump bodies here.”

Aerith’s stomach churns at the thought.

As they draw closer, Aerith hears them: the voices are indistinguishable, low and high melting together into one layered groan. It sounds like pleading. It always sounds like pleading. What they’re begging for, she doesn’t know, but they want and want and _want_ —

“Aerith?”

She’s on her knees. Her hands pressed to asphalt. When did she get so close to the ground?

Tifa’s voice brings her back. “Are you okay?” She helps her to her feet. 

Aerith brushes gravel from the folds of her dress. “Yeah, I’m okay. I got dizzy there for a second.” She puts on a practiced smile, one that’s good enough to fool. “Could we take a different route? I’m sensitive to smell and those chemicals are making me nauseous.”

The look of concern doesn’t leave Tifa’s eyes. “Sure. We can take the long way.”

“Thanks.”

By the time they reach their destination, her head has cleared a bit. Tifa’s contact apparently lives in one of those capsule apartments on the outskirts of Sector 6. Identical pill-shaped containers are neatly stacked on top of one another, each capsule lined in brushed metal. The apartments are long and narrow, each equipped with a single round window like a porthole. Aerith can see the profile of an elderly woman watching tv, cold blue light flickering in the window.

She and Tifa climb up a metal ladder to the fourth floor. Aerith wonders how residents keep from falling and breaking their necks. Tifa knocks and they step inside. She has to crouch to avoid knocking her head into the ceiling.

The apartment is cramped and the air smells musty. Tifa introduces Aerith to a middle-aged man named Hideki, who greets her with a warm smile. She gets the sense that he doesn’t leave the house much and though he’s friendly, she can smell liquor on his breath.

Aerith awkwardly sits on a floor cushion while Tifa hands Hideki the newly acquired bottle of shochu. They converse in Wutaian for a while and she’s a little taken aback; it had never occurred to her that Tifa might have Wutai in her blood. Hideki writes something down on a piece of paper, then looks over to Aerith. He says something she can’t understand and Tifa turns to face her, a crooked smile quirking at her lips.

“He says you’re pretty,” Tifa says, slightly exasperated. Hideki speaks again. “And that we’re the two most beautiful girls in Midgar.”

Aerith can’t help but break into a grin. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Tifa says, rolling her eyes.

They leave the apartment soon after and at Tifa’s suggestion, pick up two black coffees to go from a nearby stand.

“What did he give you?” Aerith’s styrofoam cup is nestled between her hands, her palms soaking up the warmth.

“What’s that?” Tifa is avoiding her gaze.

“He wrote something down for you.”

“Oh, nothing. Just contact info for a local doctor.”

“What, I’m not enough?” Aerith chides.

“No, it’s for something else.” She looks uncomfortable. Aerith decides not to push issue.

“Before we call it a day, why don’t you walk me home?” 

“Sure, but then I really have to head back. It’s getting late and I have to prep the bar.”

When they arrive at Aerith’s house, Tifa is left breathless. Awe dawns on her face like the rare sunlight they’re all so deprived of. Aerith strolled towards the gardens surrounding her house with Tifa at her heels.

“There’s a small hole in the plate up above,” she says, pointing up towards the metal sky. “It’s not much, but it’s enough.” She walks deeper through the sparse clumps of grass. “Follow me, there’s something I want to show you.”

They wade through patches of white lilies and pink snapdragons. Tifa pauses to marvel at some sweetpeas before catching up to Aerith. They come to a stop at a cluster of light purple. Aerith bends down to snap one of the flowers off its stem. She hands it to Tifa and looks her straight in the eyes. Aerith can see her so clearly now, the warmth of real light setting her features aglow in a way she’s never noticed before. There’s a small freckle at the corner of her mouth.

Aerith searches her eyes, never once breaking her gaze. A slow realization comes over Tifa’s face, her expression shifting between so many different emotions as she stares at the flower in her hand. There’s a certain kind of sorrow there, one that could easily be missed, hiding underneath it all.

“A Nibel violet,” she whispers. “This is … I haven’t seen one in years”

“I know,” Aerith says. “And I know about Nibelheim, Tifa.”

Tifa jerks her head towards Aerith, the shock plain on her face. “How—”

“My contact in the Turks. I don’t know how he found about you or us. Our … connection. But there’s a whole file on your hometown. And one on you.”

Tifa nearly drops the flower. Panic and anger flash in her eyes. “Are they coming after me?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Aerith isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince Tifa or herself. “You’re a loose end and the Turks who were assigned to that project would rather Shinra not find out about you.” Aerith sighs, her breath coming out like a shudder. “Apparently, someone changed your status from missing to dead.”

Tifa says nothing. It’s clear she’s thunderstruck. A part of Aerith feels guilty about blindsiding her. “What happened? There weren’t supposed to be any survivors.”

Tifa runs a hand through her hair. “Honestly, I’m not so sure.” Her voice is so quiet. “I should be dead.” Her hand ghosts over her chest to where her scar should be. “When I woke up in Midgar, I was in a Sector 7 clinic and I was alone. The doctor told me my master had brought me there.”

“Is this why you joined Avalanche?” 

Something in Tifa hardens and she reverts back to a version of herself that Aerith has already seen so many times. “I joined because Shinra is killing the Planet.”

Aerith shakes her head. “No.” She doesn’t want to push her away, but they’ve reached someplace new and beautiful today. It shouldn’t go to waste. She won’t let it. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what happened.”

And just like that, what went unspoken finally gives way.

Tifa’s arms drop at her sides. “It’s … personal. You know, there are towns outside of here. Normal towns. Nice towns. Places that had their own way of living. Then Shinra comes in and—“ Her gaze drops to her feet. “They make all sorts of promises. ‘Let us build a reactor. The land has so much potential. Shinra will enrich your economy, we’ll make new jobs. All shall prosper.’”

Brown eyes meet hers. “At first, they make good on those promises. And then … well, sometimes it goes wrong. Really wrong. I’m from one of those towns.”

Tifa sits down in the grass, crosses her legs. Aerith follows suit. She so badly wants to hold her hand, make physical contact and bridge that impossible gap between them. For now, words will have to suffice.

“Anger will only get you so far. It isn’t sustainable.” Aerith picks at a blade of grass. “It’ll get you killed. There are other ways to work through this.” She feels like a hypocrite saying this, the words bitter on her tongue. Anger is one thing, but to bury it altogether is another. 

Tifa twirls the violet between her fingers. Soft purple spinning. “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she says quietly. “Is that okay?” When she looks up, Aerith can see that her eyes are wet and shining. “I’ve never once asked you about your past. Or why you’re in touch with the Turks.”

Aerith doesn’t want to admit is, but it’s true. How is this fair?

Tifa lets the flower slip from her fingers. “Is this why you wanted to hang out today? So you could spring this on me?”

No. This is not what she wanted at all. “No, not at all. I’m sorry. I wanted to get to know you better, that’s all.” 

She’s met with silence.

“I’m sorry for spoiling the mood. I don’t want to push you and I wasn’t trying to upset you. I’m—” Aerith wants to say a million things. “I’m just concerned.”

Aerith gets to her feet and helps Tifa up off the ground. “There is something you should know, though.” 

Tifa rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. “What?”

“My contact, the Turk, I told him we were friends. I think he believed me. But they have their eyes on Sector 7, Tifa. You need to be careful—”

She’s interrupted by the soft shudder of wings. A bird flies overhead in a wide arc—a small, brown thing. Tifa and Aerith pause to watch it until it disappears back up into the hole punched in the plate above.

When Aerith turns to look at Tifa, there are tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“A bird. I’d almost forgotten them.”

Tifa whispers like they’ve witnessed magic. Maybe they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aerith has secrets, too.


	4. Something for the Pain: Tifa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude.

He won’t refill her prescription. Even though he examined the wound on her leg, he won’t do it. She should have known better; it was a lie that couldn’t even fool herself. Aerith is a competent healer. It stopped hurting days ago and she can’t even feel it anymore. Still, she wants to feel nothing.

When she woke up three years ago, his face was that first she’d seen. Utterly alone on a cold gurney with a tube in her arm and bandages all over her chest. He’d told her that her master had brought her to him. Saved her life. Pulled her from the smoldering ruins of her home and carried her to this cold, ugly city. She was lucky, he’d told her. Zangan had kept her alive and Zangan had left her behind. 

The orange bottle is almost empty. With every pill she takes, the negative space grows larger. 

Sometimes, she’ll lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling, pretend it’s the night sky. Cracked plaster turns into stars. Somewhere up there, deep in the glittering galaxy burns a promise she made a lifetime ago. By the time she’s come down, she remembers that the stars are dead, the truth peeling back to reveal nothing but cheap decay. When she stands up, she sees those stars again—blood rushing to her head and little pricks of light worming around her vision like the tails of so many comets a million miles away.

She should have died with Papa. She should have followed Mama. If she had, her soul would be with them on the other side of the mountain. They would be together again. Why was she always spared? The doctor called it luck; to her, it was a curse.

When she looks in the mirror, all she sees is corrosion, so she closes her eyes and conjures the color blue. Is blue a memory? A hallucination? Blue was a promise, blue allowed her to accept death because at least she knew she wasn’t dying alone. What she doesn’t want to admit is that she’s tired of being left behind. 

She remembers those last hours. Peace had been within her reach. The tantalizing comfort of pure darkness. She chases that feeling over and over again. She wants to remember what it feels like to be dead. 

The scent of blood. The stench of smoke. Burning wood, burning bodies. Everything she had ever known and loved departing into the heavens in a thick plume of smoke. The sickly green of mako eyes cuts through the embers, searing into her psyche until she's blind with hate.

And now what? More bodies. More fire. Smoke and shrapnel and mako green pumping through metal pipes. She thought being on the other side of things would feel different, that anger would sustain her rather than burn through her life like paper. She was wrong. Fire fuels fire and anything else she tells herself is a lie. 

When her mind goes numb and her body melts to water, she knows that nothing else will ever make her feel better. It opens the door to that secret space where the past stops hurting and her cries for help quiet into silence.

And yet a new kind of green has begun to emerge. It sits side-by-side with blue and together, they soothe the places that hurt the most. They fill her head with promises: all the parts of her that are broken can be put back together again. If only she would let them. If only. But she doesn’t know if she’s strong enough. She doesn’t know if she’s deserving.

Tomorrow, she’ll find a new doctor. Tonight, she’ll jump down into the darkness once more and pray that she won’t hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel lives. Next up is Aerith's version of this chapter.


	5. Something for the Pain: Aerith

The lightbulb above her head is screaming.

Another soul courses through the filament, glowing gold with the remnants of a life once lived. A voice cries out, demanding recognition.

Help me.  
Help me.  
_Help me._

This is the cost of greed. Countless spirits denied peace in exchange for modern convenience. So much lost at the flick of a switch. Mako: a sustainable source of energy that generates power for the high and the low and everyone in between. Shinra’s greatest lie. Only few understand the deception for what it really is. Spiritual violence. A violation.

Still, she wishes the voice would stop screaming. She never asked for this. Ancient lineage passed down through blood—Cetra. The last remaining one. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t have been born into such a legacy. 

A small part of her blames her mother. How could she have left her—her one child—so alone? How could she leave her to wander her life’s path without someone to guide her? To call it destiny is blind romanticism. What lies before her is a predetermined set of paths by which she has no choice but to follow. If her mother were still alive, she could teach her how to listen to the voices, how to speak to them, how to quell the horrible desperation that grew louder with every passing day. How to cope with it all. 

Instead, she screams alongside their screams. Bangs her head until her vision goes black. Goes numb and curls into herself until all her senses leave her and she can’t for the life of her remember who or where she is.

There’s only one lesson that she remembers from her mother. _Listen to the Planet._

But the Planet is no help. It speaks only to whisper hatred of human folly. As a Cetra, she is its only living confidant and its rage brings her to her knees. The Planet cares not what she needs or what she asks. How can she help? How best can she serve the memory of her people? What can she do to honor the living and the dead? Her questions go unanswered. The Planet is indifferent to her despair.

She wishes she had someone to share this with, to tip the scales just a little, just enough to relieve her of the crushing weight of burden. There is no one alive who can understand her circumstances. Even her new mother is ignorant to her pain. She remembers the day she told her that her husband was never coming home. The look on her face … even now she regrets saying anything. It was that day that she learned she was truly alone. After that, she never spoke of it to anyone again. 

The flowers in her garden are her only solace. They’re gentle and so grateful for the meager bit of sun they’re allowed each day. Pink, purple, red, blue. Stalks of green. Eyes of soft yellow. Blossoms open and close, every single one of them whispering _thank you, thank you, thank you._ They speak to her in only the most beautiful colors and textures. On good days, they ring like bells. She’s heard of a condition that allows a person to experience beauty twice, seeing sounds as colors, two separate senses intertwined in an inexplicable dance. It feels a little like that. 

What she loves most about her flowers is that they want for nothing. The cacophony of voices circulating through the veins of the Planet wants so much from her, yet her flowers never do. She would give them the world if she could. On bad days, she lies among them, allowing soft petals to whisper against her skin. A small panacea. It’s easy to imagine what it would be like to sink beneath the soil. Just to be that much closer.

And like her beloved flowers, Tifa asks for nothing. So, of course, she has to try. Because whenever she’s near, all the noise dissipates. The screams die down. And she’s finally given a glimpse of what she craves the most. A breath of fresh air. A necessary pause. When she’s close to Tifa, she remembers how to breathe again.


	6. Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. It's a long one.

**Monday**

  


The alarm goes off at 8:30 am. Persistent digital staccato. Tifa slaps at the snooze button, forgetting that it hasn’t worked for months. She sits up. Turns off the alarm. Still feels groggy, like her head is filled with water even though her throat is bone dry.

She pulls the covers off and swings her legs over the bed. They feel so heavy. Her entire body feels like lead. Still, they carry her down the hall and into the bathroom.

Tifa pulls the chain and the bathroom light flickers on. The bare bulb buzzes. The mirror stares back. The face is a little pale. Shadows under brown eyes appear blue under the cold light.

The tap turns on. She brushes her teeth. Splashes cold water on her face. Takes a minute. Relishes the cold. Water drips down her chin. Takes one more look in the mirror before turning away.

When she returns to her room, she removes a round blue pill from its orange plastic bottle. Places it on her tongue. Washes it down with a cup of stale water. Soon, her hands will stop quaking.

Breakfast is light: two eggs, stale plain toast, hot black coffee. There’s a week-old edition of the local paper on the bar. She pulls up a stool and reads it anyway. Only makes it to page three before she folds it back up and pushes it aside. Slum news does nothing for the appetite and she isn’t very hungry to begin with. At least the coffee is good.

—

They all gather in their newly built basement. It’s cold and damp and mostly empty aside from a large table and a few folding chairs. The fluorescent light in the ceiling is harsh, too bright.

They’ve been preparing for this mission for weeks. A stockboy who works at the Sector 3 reactor provided the latest intel. It’s always the blue collar workers who are their best sources. Low voices and knowing glances exchanged over a glass of whiskey on the house. Money is never an issue. Most of the time, they just want someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t family, who can shoulder the burden and redirect their frustration into something more productive. Something sharp, something punishing.

Shinra is upgrading their SOLDIER program, starting with mako therapy. The current mako isolation tanks are being replaced with new models, and a whole shipment is being transported to Sector 0, directly to Shinra HQ in two days.

Barrett lays down a map. They all lean in to get a closer look. Avalanche will intercept the train as it moves from Sector 5 to Sector 3. They’ll split up into two teams: Jessie and Tifa, and Barrett and Biggs. Wedge will sit this one out; he’s still inexperienced in the field and they need someone to run the bar to keep up appearances, anyway.

Tifa has to make an effort to pay attention. The opiate is still flowing through her system. Right now, the room feels heavy with fog. Voices run into each other. Maybe if she just focused on one thing. Her eyes settle for the silver ring in Barrett’s right ear. It glimmers, cuts through the haze. Strange.

Barrett continues. She can hear the individual words more clearly this time: together, they’ll clear out the guards at the base of Pillar 5. From there, Barrett and Biggs will split off and make their way counterclockwise to the base of Pillar 3 where they’ll take care of any guards down below and up top.

Tifa worries. How many low-rung footmen will be there? They’re usually so young, many of them recruited from the Lower Plate. Are they her age? Closer to Wedge’s age? How old is Wedge?

“Tifa?”

The fog clears momentarily. Barrett is looking at her. “Yeah?”

“You got that?” She doesn’t answer. “I said you and Jessie’ll intercept the train from here.” He points to the map where Sector 5 Upper Plate train station is marked. Tifa nods.

“Board the train from the rear from the loading dock opposite the station. You’ve gotta be quick. If you miss it, it’s over.”

Tifa finds her voice. “We won’t.”

“Alright.” He looks satisfied. “Since it’s after midnight, chances are there won’t be many other trains running.”

Was he sure? The Upper Plate enjoyed more comforts than they did and that included frequent and timely trains running round the clock.

“Move up the train and take care of any lackeys that might be guarding the cargo.”

“Do we have a sense of how many there’ll be?”

Barrett shakes his head. This is worrying. Something must have shown on her face because Biggs interjects.

“You wanna switch places, Tifa? I know last time—”

“No.” His eyes are soft. Still, her pride won’t allow it. “I can handle it.”

“Okay.”

Barrett continues. “Jessie, you’ll plant your explosives on each car. There should be around five, total.” He turns to Tifa. “And Tifa, once you reach the front car, you’ll hold up the operator. Make sure he stays calm and keeps the train moving until you reach Sector 5.”

“We won’t hurt him?” She surprises herself.

“You can let him off at Sector 5.”

“But what if the bombs go off—”

Jessie touches her shoulder. “I staggered them at one minute intervals. The first one goes off in fifteen. That should be plenty of time.”

Tifa nods. “Alright.”

The rest of the plan is simple. She and Jessie will make their way to the Sector 3 where Biggs and Barrett will be waiting to escort them down the pillar, back to the Lower Plate.

This mission is their biggest one yet. One that could make a real difference. Tifa thinks of a time when SOLDIER meant something different, before one of them painted the floor with her blood. Before another gave her a gift she would wear on her chest until the day she died.

This mission is a promising one. Tifa thinks back to blue eyes and imagines them set aglow with stolen energy, poisoned with the planet's blood.

—

Later, once she’s come down, Tifa and Jessie go over their plan. At first, she thinks the review is mostly for Jessie’s sake, since all she really needs to do is fight her way up the train and keep the operator from doing anything stupid. What she learns is that despite her clumsiness, Jessie is thorough.

She’s come up with a back-up plan should anything go wrong at the front of the train. Worst case scenario, Tifa will have to take over the train’s controls.

“Every Shinra train is equipped with an S.O.S. mechanism that’ll override the system and force the train to stop.”

Jessie has drawn out the rough sketch of the control panel. Her linework is surprisingly elegant. She points to the drawing. “It’s a small lever, right under the display screen. You’ll need to make sure the operator doesn’t even so much as look at it.”

Tifa patiently waits for an explanation, though she can guess what it is.

“Once it’s stopped, you have to punch in a passcode to start up the train again. It also functions as an alert. Flip it and back-up will be on our asses faster than you can blink.”

Tifa fidgets as Jessie walks her through the rest of the control panel. One lever for acceleration and deceleration, one button to push for a complete stop. Should be easy enough, but considering the last time she teamed up with Jessie, she’s nervous to say the least.

Jessie turns away from the sketch and looks at Tifa, her expression a mix of guilt and hesitance. “Are you worried because of last time?”

“No, I’m not. We’ve gone over the plan half a dozen times now,” she lies.

Jessie anxiously drums her fingernails on the table. The nervous energy is infectious, echoes loudly in Tifa's head as though she were tapping directly on the inside of her skull.

Jessie keeps talking. “Okay, because it’s kind of a tricky bit of timing. Even one minute lost could jeopardize the entire mission.”

“Jessie, _stop_. Don’t make this any more stressful than it needs to be.”

Jessie bites her lip. “Ah, okay. Sorry.”

Tifa immediately feels guilty. Even though she’s used to feeling impatient with Jessie, she normally never expresses it. To spare her feelings. Because, she remembers, they're friends. Tifa rubs her temples. The beginnings of a headache are making themselves known. It’s not Jessie’s fault she feels hollowed out from the inside.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just tired and you’re right. I’m a little nervous about the whole thing. There’s so much on the line.”

Jessie looks up from her hands, which have finally stilled.

“But I trust you, okay? We’ve got each other’s backs.” Tifa forces a smile, which Jessie returns almost too eagerly.

—

Tifa makes a decision. In order for this mission to be successful, she needs a clear head. Whatever qualms she might have mean nothing right now; they’re all depending on her. That’s all that matters.

—

**Tuesday**

  


The alarm goes off at 8:30 am. Persistent digital staccato. Each beep is a needle in her ears. Spike. Spike. Spike. Tifa punches off the alarm. Curls into herself. She hardly slept at all and her body feels too cold and too hot all at once. The sheets stick to her skin.

She pulls the covers off and swings her legs over the bed. They feel so weak. Her entire body is as brittle as a dead leaf.

Walking down the hall is like moving through a tunnel, her vision blurred around the edges.

Tifa pulls the chain and the bathroom light flickers on. The bare bulb buzzes. The light is so bright, it hurts her eyes. She pulls the chain again. Plunges the room back into darkness. The mirror stares back. The face is obscured in shadows. Still, she holds its gaze for what feels like an eternity.

The tap turns on. She brushes her teeth. Splashes cold water on her face. It helps. Splashes more water until she’s drenched. Greedy for it. Hovers over the sink, water dripping from the tip of her nose. The cold edges on freezing. It's too much. She shivers.

When she returns to her room, she stares at the orange plastic bottle on her desk. It’s full of blue pills that would make the nausea and the chill go away. She resists counting them. There are so many.

No. Not today. She drinks from last night’s glass of water. It tastes bad. Nearly spits it out. Her hands won’t stop shaking.

Breakfast might make it better. Stomach churns at the thought of eggs. Yellow eyes and jelly whites. Slimy albumin. She settles for children’s cereal and black coffee. The week-old paper is still on the bar. A distraction? Except she can’t focus on the words, can’t follow even the shortest of sentences. The paper is pushed away.

She continues to eat. Sugar dust and crunchy color turn to sweet mash in her mouth. At least the coffee is good.

—

It’s raining. Even though the Lower Plate remains dry, she can tell. It’s in the sound above her head, the soft patter that flattens out into a low murmuration, like fine static on a broken television.

Tifa can smell it in the air. Cool, heavy, wet. It makes her heart ache. Because of this, she prefers dry days.

Somehow, she finds herself walking to Aerith’s house like an animal drawn to water. A woman she’s never seen before answers the door—she's older and calls herself Aerith’s mother. Though her eyes are kind, Tifa thinks they look nothing alike.

As she waits for Aerith downstairs at the dining table, Elmyra tells Tifa that she’s heard so much about her. This new piece of information triggers a strange feeling within her, one that faintly resembles guilt. She feels a little bit like a criminal in the warm, inviting home. Probably because she technically is one.

She remembers a time when her own mother warned her about “bad influences.” But they’re my friends, she’d told her then. Her father had felt similarly, but expressed his concern with a stricter hand and a louder voice. Still, even that hadn’t been enough to stop her.

Once Aerith’s made her way downstairs, Elmyra gives them privacy.

As soon as she sits down, Aerith’s eyes glance toward Tifa’s hands. Tifa worries that she notices the trembling and folds them into her lap.

“Would you like some tea?” Aerith asks.

“Okay, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Aerith pours them two cups from a round, white teapot. As she sips, Tifa wonders if she brewed it from herbs she grew in her garden. The warm beverage soothes her throat, sends a tingling sensation down her spine that’s almost pleasant enough to drown out the body aches and the pounding in her head.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Tifa is the first to break it.

“We have a mission coming up. Tomorrow. It’s … it’s a big one.” The words come out haltingly.

“I see.” Aerith drinks her tea without breaking eye contact. Green eyes remain fixed and intense. Tifa feels like she might wilt. She looks away.

“There’s a lot at stake and I’m … honestly, I’m worried.”

Tifa hears the soft clink of ceramic. She looks up. Aerith has set her cup down, her chin resting on linked hands.

“Can they do it without you?”

Can they? She’s not sure. Either answer can be justified, really. If she says no, how much of it is her convincing herself that they need her more than they really do? The implications of yes … that’s something she isn’t quite ready to grapple with. But then why did she come here? Tifa closes her eyes. This line of thinking has made her headache worse.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. This is honest, at least.

“Were you hoping I would try to stop you?” The tone in Aerith’s voice has shifted into something less familiar. Harder, clipped. “Well, I won’t. And more to the point, I can’t.”

“What am I supposed to do? I know you don’t want to hear this, but I want to make a difference. What other ways are there?”

“I don’t have the answers for that.”

Coming here was a mistake. What had she even expected? Better to leave now before they disappoint each other even more. Tifa stands up. “I should get going. I’m sorry I dropped by unannounced.”

She turns to leave. A hand catches her own.

“Tifa, wait—” She turns around. Green eyes have softened. “That came out wrong.” Aerith bites her lip. “I just don’t know what it is you want.”

“It’s okay,” Tifa says, voice low. Their hands are still linked. “I don’t know either.”

Aerith’s other hand closes over hers. So warm.

“Come back in one piece, okay?”

Tifa wishes she could promise that much at least. But she can’t find it in herself to lie.

—

It’s nights like this that make her really appreciate Wedge. Without prompting, he helps prep dinner and Tifa welcomes the extra pair of hands in peeling potatoes, chopping carrots. She shows him how to mix some of her more popular drinks and what glasses to pour them into.

After dinner while washing dishes, Wedge tells her how much he enjoyed the food, that he hopes he can one day be as good a cook as her. It puts a smile on her face and momentarily makes her forget how terrible she feels.

Something so obvious as simple kindness and Tifa realizes how she sometimes tends to overlook such basic things in her everyday life. She understands now. Some days, they’re as necessary as air.

—

**Wednesday**

  


The alarm goes off at 8:30 am. Persistent digital staccato. Each beep is a taunt. Tifa turns off the alarm. She isn’t as rested as she should be, but it’s not as bad as the night before. Still, she’d dreaded the morning. Wishes badly that she were still asleep.

No point in delaying the inevitable. She pulls the covers off and swings her legs over the bed. Walks down the hall to the bathroom.

Tifa pulls the chain and the bathroom light flickers on. The bare bulb buzzes. The tap turns on. She brushes her teeth. Splashes cold water on her face. Avoids the mirror.

When she returns to her room, she makes a decision. The day needs to go off without a hitch. What she needs is control, clarity. She fishes out a round blue pill from the orange bottle on her desk. Snaps it in half. Swallows it dry. What she tells herself is that it’s necessary.

Breakfast is hearty. Two eggs, plain toast, boiled potatoes, one apple, black coffee. She opens the week-old paper on the bar and reads through the worst of the headlines. Forces herself to make it through the obituaries and the wanted ads.

Missing girl found dead in Sector 3. Looking to sell slightly refurbished television, cheap. Schoolteacher shot in Shinra protest, beloved, admired by student and parent alike. Honeybee Manor in search of girls ages 17 to 23, good pay, flexible hours.

It’s good to remind herself of where she is, who the people around her are, even the ones she’s never met.

She finishes breakfast and finds Biggs to ask him to train. He’s always up for it, always dependable. By the end of their session, she’s sweating, adrenaline pumping through her veins along with the dregs of something sweeter.

—

It hasn’t stopped raining. When Tifa and Jessie reach the Upper Plate, the rain is coming down hard in sheets. Her first time on the Upper Plate—so tantalizingly close to the sky—and not a star in sight. Only dark, heavy cloud cover.

When they jump onto the back of the train, Jessie nearly slips off the platform, but catches herself just barely on the railing. This isn’t her usual clumsiness; the rain has made every surface slippery and dangerous. 

Tifa's forearm tightens against the windpipe of a faceless Shinra guard. When she feels his limbs go limp, she nods at Jessie and shoves the heavy body off the side of the train. He lands on the tracks with a hard thud. Tifa tries not to think of the bones he’s broken. He’ll wake up eventually. Either that or someone will find him before the next train comes.

Jessie squats over her open rucksack. “See you in a few minutes,” Tifa says and she turns to run up the length of the car. The bandana tied around her face is so damp that the fabric sticks to her lips and nose, making it hard to breathe.

In one smooth movement, she bounds over the railing and lands on the metal platform of the next car. The speed of the train and the violent spray of rain make it hard to see. Another faceless guard whirls around the corner, wildly aims his semi-automatic in her face. Tifa kicks the barrel aside and he lurches forward, losing his footing. She slams his head into the side of the car, knocking him out. Pushes him off the moving train.

She continues moving up the train, taking out the two remaining guards, until she arrives at the front car. Takes a deep breath and reaches into the pocket of her hoodie. The pistol feels cold and foreign in her hand.

The right-hand door swings open. Tifa points the gun at the shocked train operator, a middle-aged man with a heavy black moustache.

“Don’t move.” He holds his hands up. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tifa shuts the car door, moves closer to him. His eyes are twitchy, frightened. They glance quickly at the control panel.

“Don’t even think about touching that emergency switch.” She closes the distance between them, presses the barrel of the gun to his chest, just out of view below the window. They’re so close she can hear him breathing. Quick, panicked gasps.

Tifa steps back and waves the gun at the acceleration lever. “Keep the train going. Bring it to a stop at the Sector 5 station.” Aims the gun back at the operator. “And you’ll be allowed to go.”

The man doesn’t move. “I said drive!” He flinches and obeys, taking hold of the acceleration lever with a shaky right hand. The train slowly picks up speed.

Minutes crawl by. Where’s Jessie? She tries not to worry, keeps her focus on the gun in her hand and the man in front of her.

“Are you thieves? Trying to steal the cargo?”

Tifa steadies the gun with her other hand. “No.”

“Who are you then? What do you want?” His eyes dart worriedly between her face and the gun. Nervous. Scared.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tifa wishes he would stop talking. What’s taking Jessie so long? Is the rain messing up her devices?

“I’ll lose my job,” the operator says. The hand on the lever is trembling. “Even if you let me go, they’ll fire me or worse.”

“You really need to stop talking.” She tries to put some force into her voice.

He keeps talking. “Please.” His voice grows desperate. “I need this job. I can’t afford to … Without it, I, I—”

“Shut _up_.”

A sharp knock behind her. She whirls around. Jessie’s face appears in the window. She flashes a thumbs up. Tifa turns back to the operator, gun steady in her hands.

“Okay, you—”

Suddenly, bright light floods over his features. It all happens so fast. The door to the left pushes open. Rain sprays into the car. Tifa shouts, reaches out with her free hand. Grabs hold of his jacket. Too late. The roar of an oncoming train. There weren’t supposed to be … He jumps. Body crunches. A horrible sound. The lights zoom past. Tifa stands there, frozen in shock.

Behind her, Jessie curses. Grabs her by the arm. “Tifa! We have to go. Now!”

They have no choice but to jump off the train. Manage to get away with bruised knees, skinned palms. They hear the bombs go off behind them, one by one. The rain muffles the sound, makes for good cover. They run all the way to Sector 3. It’s all a blur. In her head, all Tifa can see is the frightened face of a man forced to make a desperate choice.

As they hurry down the spiraling stairs of Pillar 3, Tifa nearly loses her balance and tumbles facefirst into Biggs. He steadies her by the shoulder. “You okay?” She’s dazed. She wants to vomit. “I …” Biggs grabs her hand until she can stand straight, slows down his steps to a light jog. “Hey, come on. I got you. Get it together.”

Somehow, they make it all the way down. When they arrive back at Seventh Heaven, Tifa pushes past Barrett, past Biggs, past Jessie and walks wordlessly to her room. Heads straight for her desk, opens the orange plastic bottle and fishes out three blue pills. Swallows them all at once with a gulp of water.

Staggers down the hall and to the bathroom. Turns on the shower, throws her clothes in a messy pile on the floor. Steps in the shower. Lets the hot water spray down on her head, her body. She touches the scar on her chest and sits down on the wet, tiled floor. Pulls her knees close to her chest and hugs her legs. Soaks until she feels one with the water. Until his face is drowned out.

Time passes and she doesn’t notice. Someone knocks on the door and calls her name. At first, she doesn’t recognize it, the sound of her own name.

—

**Thursday**

  


The alarm goes off at 8:30 am. Persistent digital staccato. It beeps from a distance. Fades away into a whisper. Then it returns, louder than ever. 8:45 am. Tifa taps the ‘off’ button. Her eyelids won’t stay open. So heavy. She leans her head deeper into her pillow. Sleeps for just a little longer.

When she finally gets up, it’s 10:30 am. Despite oversleeping, she feels like her head is heavy with syrup. The pills from last night are still coursing through her veins. That’s okay. She doesn’t want to feel anything today.

She pulls off the covers and swings her legs over the bed. Phantom limbs, like her spirit has detached from her body. Wades through the pleasant haze and walks down the hall to the bathroom.

Tifa pulls the chain and the bathroom light flickers on. The bare bulb buzzes, blending into the fuzz all around her. The mirror stares back. Some girl with an expressionless face.

The tap turns on. Brushes her teeth. Splashes cold water on her face. She’d enjoy the sensation if she weren’t so numb. Pats her skin dry. Ignores the girl in the mirror. Turns off the light.

Returns to her room, pulls on pants and a t-shirt. Last night’s clothes sit on the back of her chair, still damp from the rain. She briefly remembers … the light and the rain and a body hitting steel. She shakes the image from her head. Notices the orange bottle on her desk. It’s nearly half-empty. How many did she take last night?

Breakfast is spare: plain toast and hot black coffee. Biggs is sitting at the bar smoking a cigarette. Menthol. She can taste the chemical mint on the back of her tongue. Tifa is tempted to ask him for one, but imagines it would go badly with the bitterness of her coffee.

“Morning,” he mumbles. Blows thin streams of smoke out his nostrils.

“Hey.” She takes a bite of her toast. It’s dry, unsatisfying. At least the coffee is good.

He puts out the cigarette in a small tin ashtray, pushing it down until the glowing cherry goes black. “You doing alright? Jessie told me what happened …” He awkwardly rubs the back of his head. “Sounded pretty gnarly.”

Tifa takes a long sip of coffee. “It was … bad.” The pleasant feeling is beginning to thaw out. No good. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“Gotcha.”

A loud knock at the front door. They both startle at the suddenness. Exchange worried glances. Biggs’ hand drifts to the holster on his belt. Tifa stands up. “I’ll get it.” While she walks to the door, Biggs hangs back, hovers between the bar and the hallway. If it comes to it, he’ll grab the others for back-up.

Tifa cautiously opens the door.

Brown hair, green eyes. It’s Aerith. “We need to talk,” she says. 

Tifa is taken aback. “Okay.” She steps back, allows enough space for Aerith to walk inside. There’s something tucked under her arm. A rolled up newspaper?

She strides across the bar and Tifa follows. She shrugs at Biggs, who visibly relaxes when he sees who it is. Aerith slaps the newspaper down on the bar. She’s upset, Tifa can tell.

Tifa leans against the bar and reaches for the coffeepot.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“No.” Aerith crosses her arms.

Tifa chooses to ignore the gesture. Refills her mug. “Okay, well I’m no good without coffee, so give me a minute …” she mumbles into the steam. Takes a long drink. Biggs has taken to leaning against the wall, observing the two with an awkward, uncertain look on his face. The tension in the room is palpable.

Aerith sits down on the stool opposite Tifa and opens the paper. Rotates it so she can read and jams a finger at a headline: “Sector 6 Local Dies in Terrorist Attack.” Tifa freezes. Looks away.

“He lived here in the slums,” Aerith says, voice sharp. “And he—it says he jumped in front of a train. Right before your bombs went off and injured even more people.”

Where had the train been when the bombs exploded? Tifa hadn’t even considered. Probably because she didn’t want to know. 

“I know,” she says quietly. She can still see the man’s face, his features etched forever in her memory. “I was there with him … I tried to stop him.”

Aerith slumps against the stool. “I understand what you’re doing, but you’re hurting people. People just like you and me, they’re getting caught in the middle.”

Tifa clenches a fist. “Do you?”

“I … what?” Aerith shakes her head in frustration, turns to look at Tifa.

“Understand.”

Aerith is silent, confusion written on her features.

“I mean, how could you?” Tifa is staring at her hands. Watches them clench and unclench, as though her fingers were moving of their own accord.

Aerith bites her lip. Quickly recovers. “I do. But that’s besides the point.”

Tifa stands up. “Besides the point? It is the point. We have more than enough reason for doing this, all of us—” She gestures at Biggs. “Because it’s what we believe in.”

“What you believe in? Are you serious?” she asks, incredulous. Both of their voices have gotten louder. “Hurting the people you’re supposedly fighting for. Is that what you believe in?”

“No, that’s not—”

Biggs clears his throat from the other side of the room. “Ladies, let’s just all calm down …”

“Biggs, stay out of it,” Tifa warns. “Anyway, what is it to you? I already told you that you don’t have to help us anymore.”

She ignores the hurt in Aerith’s eyes. “Tifa …”

“Really, why are you even here?” She can’t stop the words streaming out of her mouth. “Or do you just have a habit of walking into people’s homes uninvited and yelling at them over something that’s absolutely none of your business?”

Suddenly, the look on Aerith’s face turns serious and she reaches across the bar, envelopes Tifa’s hand in both of hers. “I know this doesn’t sit right with you. It’s hurting you, too.”

“I—” Tifa doesn’t know what to say. “I’m fine.” A lie.

Aerith squeezes her hand. “You’re not. I can see it.” She pauses. Considers. “I know you’re on opiates.” This gets Tifa’s attention. She wrenches her hand free. “I’m not stupid,” Aerith continues. “Everytime I see you, your pupils are so tiny I can barely see them.”

Tifa turns her face away, suddenly self-conscious. Feels her skin go hot with shame. “Stop, that’s not …”

“This is what I meant. You can’t keep going like this, you’re going to get yourself—”

Before she knows it, her fist has punched through the wall behind her. Wood splits under bone, splinters into skin. What scares Tifa most is that she can’t feel it. Blood trickles down her knuckles.

Biggs and Aerith are silent. Shocked, no doubt. Tifa moves past them, pushes the door open, and walks out. At first she hears footsteps trail after her, then a low murmur ( _let her cool off_ ). The door slams shut behind her. She doesn’t need this right now.

—

 

When she returns to the bar hours later, Aerith is gone. Biggs is still (still?) sitting at the bar, smoking another cigarette. Judging by the number of butts in the ashtray, he’s been sitting there for a while.

“Hey,” he says, a small smile on his face.

“Hey.”

He pats the stool next to his, motions for her to sit down. She does.

“Feel better?”

“A bit.” Tifa examines her right hand. It’s already starting to bruise around the knuckles. She managed to fish out some of the splinters during her walk, but the finer bits are still embedded deep in her skin. It’s finally starting to hurt. She feels like an idiot.

Biggs gently examines her injured hand and hisses through his teeth. “Pretty banged up.” He grins, releasing her hand. “Too strong for your own good.”

Except, he’s wrong. She’s already thinking about that little orange bottle.

“You know, we all don’t have to agree on everything.”

“What do you mean?” Tifa reaches for his pack of cigarettes, pulls one out. He lights it for her.

“I mean, all that stuff that Barret says. We’re not always on the same page.”

She inhales. The menthol tastes terrible. “Okay.”

“I’m just saying. You’re great on the field and all, but you’re good at other stuff, too. You know what I mean?”

“Sort of. Thanks, I guess.” The smoke is going to her head. It’s disorienting and pleasant all at once.

“You’re good at talking to people. Gathering intel. Finding new sources. All that.” He looks at her knowingly. “That’s more valuable than knowing how to knock heads around.”

Part of Tifa knows it’s true. She’s always been the best at coaxing information out of sources, gaining new leads. People just liked to talk to her. She wasn’t sure why, really.

“Wedge’s getting better, if you can believe it. He’s a fast learner and eager, wants to get out there on the field. That’s more than enough people. So, if you wanted to stay behind the scenes …”

Tifa extinguishes her cigarette. She doesn’t want to let herself get too excited. But it’s a possible solution. One she could work with.

“Float it by Barret,” Biggs says. He pats her back. “He’ll understand.”

“Thanks, Biggs.” She leans her head on her shoulder. They stay like that for a moment. Tifa’s never had a brother, but if she did, she imagines, hopes it would be like what she has with Biggs.

The phone rings and they both jump. Biggs sighs and gets up to answer it.

“Hello? Oh, hey, Aerith.” He covers the mouthpiece with his hand, gives her a questioning look. Tifa shakes her head, waves ‘no’ with her hand. “Ah, sorry. She’s not here right now. Um. Yeah, okay, bye.”

He hangs up and walks back over to Tifa. “She says I’m a bad liar.”

Tifa picks at a water stain on the bar. It could use a new coat of wax. “I’m not ready to talk to her yet.”

“I get it.”

They sit in silence. She can hear Wedge washing the dishes in the kitchen.

“We don’t have to talk about this now if you don’t want to,” Biggs starts. “But about what she said. If you ever want to talk …” He fishes out another cigarette, holds it between his fingers. “My brother, he came back from the war all sorts of messed up. They gave him some pills for his busted knee, but not much else.”

Tifa swallows. Says nothing.

“Anyway, I know what you’re going through. And I’m here. If you want someone to talk to or … whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” she says quietly. Biggs knows her story. Knows how she arrived in Midgar, a complete mess, nearly split in two. Even after she healed, there were still pieces left of her to pick up. They both know the kind of treatment available to slum citizens is far from ideal. A quick fix and not much else. Nothing faintly resembling the definition of ‘care.’

“I might take you up on that.”

“You got it.” He smiles brightly. “Not stop wasting my cigarettes. You don’t even like ‘em.”

Tifa laughs and finally, feels a little lighter.

—

**Friday**

  


She finds Aerith in her garden. It’s morning and like some kind of miracle, Tifa can smell the faint scent of fresh dew. Aerith is moving a bucket of rainwater from under the hole punched in the plate above. She stops in her tracks when she sees Tifa approaching.

They stand facing each other. Tifa rubs at her arm nervously.

“I’m … sorry about yesterday,” she starts. Aerith sets down the bucket. A little bit of water splashes onto her bare ankles.

“Tifa, no, I’m the one who should apologize, I—”

Tifa shakes her head. She’s determined to see this apology through. “No. You’re right. It’s all been wrong for a while.” She looks up. Finds green eyes searching. “I’m going to tell Barret I want to be taken off the field. For good this time.”

Aerith is surprised. Tifa pushes ahead. “I can’t quit. I don’t want to. I’m loyal to them and they need me. But I can stay behind the scenes. It’s what I’m good at, anyway.”

Aerith nods. Listens.

“That’s all I can promise for now, okay?”

“Okay.”

Tifa feels Aerith’s fingers on her hand. She can’t stop from wincing when she turns it over, examines the bruising, the still-raw spaces between her knuckles. A cooling sensation spreads from the tips of her fingers to her wrist and suddenly, her hand doesn’t hurt anymore.

A soft green glow pulses around their joined hands. Aerith pulls Tifa’s hand up close to her face and presses soft kisses to the inside of her palm, her knuckles, her fingers, soft lips whispering so gently over newly healed skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inching closer.


	7. Girls

It’s been two weeks.

Fourteen days since Tifa flushed the last of her pills down the toilet while Biggs watched. According to him, it was supposed to be symbolic, but also mostly practical. The reasoning was simple: not having access made it easier to stop. Easier, not easy.

The first few days were the hardest. Sleepless nights and the return of old nightmares. The scent of smoke, phantom green eyes staring through red fire. Chills and clamminess during waking hours that not even the hottest shower could wash away. Moving was just as bad as sitting still. The persistent nausea made every step feel like the floor was melting beneath her feet, everything churning like she was wading through an agonizingly slow whirlpool.

None of that compared to the emotional toll. Without the pills to numb her, there they were—her worst thoughts laid bare. All the feelings she’d pushed so far down returned with undeniable vigor, the guilt and the loneliness gnawing away at her anew. This is what it meant to feel raw. She forgot what it was like to sit with a bad feeling, let it exist and run its course.

Had she always been this weak? A day didn’t go by where she didn’t think about that little orange bottle. It would be so easy. Four stops on the train and she could be in Sector 3. Just forty-five minutes, that’s all it would take to see a doctor all too eager to fill a prescription pad in exchange for a small wad of gil.

But no. She needs to see this through. She has to be able to survive this. As Biggs had said, it gets worse before it gets better.

Some days aren’t so bad. When she’s able to gain footing, find purchase on just a few good hours in a day, her head is clear and her thoughts clean. Those days, she feels more like herself. Or at least less like a stranger.

One day at a time. One foot in front of the other. Little by little and eventually, she’ll gain enough distance from that part of her life, that side of herself. And maybe one day it’ll seem unthinkable.

Barret has been taking it easy on her. Tifa wonders if Biggs said something to him. Even if he did, part of her knows better than to feel shame. They’re family. She’s loyal. It’s why Barret agreed to let her change roles without much resistance. Any help is help enough. Still, she knows she has to prove herself, show that her new position has some worth.

When the anonymous e-mail arrives in Jessie’s inbox, it’s like a godsend. It takes Jessie over an hour to decrypt it and when she does, they all discover that somehow, their little ragtag group has gained enough of a reputation to attract the attention of someone very important. Someone in the upper echelons of Shinra Electric Company.

The only reason they’re not immediately suspicious is because the nameless sender is generous from the start. It claims that a handful of Shinra executives are regular participants in illegal activities involving slum minors at the Honeybee Manor. The sender proposes an exchange: help them procure hard evidence of the illicit activities and they’ll hand over maps and security schedules for every sector reactor.

If that weren’t enough, attached to the e-mail is the gift of 25,000 credits of gil, all untraceable. Their advance.

Intracorporate blackmail. Help Shinra destroy itself from the inside. Like letting animals tear each other to pieces. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

 

—

Seeing Johnny is always a little uncomfortable. And yet Tifa makes a point to visit him from time to time. Even if it’s out of obligation, she keeps him in her life because he’s all she has left of Nibelheim.

He still looks at her the same way he did when they were teenagers. She can’t stand it. Probably because she’s a different person now. What he sees is a memory, one that burned away a lifetime ago. But Tifa doesn't fault him for not being able to understand. Johnny got out before their hometown was razed to the ground. It isn't his fault he's lucky.

Of course she’s glad he didn’t have to witness the horror that day, but with his good fortune came a divide that neither of them could ever hope to cross. Tifa had learned that much during their brief fling back when she first arrived in Midgar. Back then, she’d thought that clinging to the only remaining piece of the past would fill the hollow inside her, help her recover all that Shinra had stolen from her. It didn’t work. And when she called it off, she was left with yet another thing to grieve.

Even so, sometimes, she’s tempted to kiss him. To steal one last taste of home. But she knows better and recognizes a moment of weakness for what it is. That particular concept of home doesn’t exist anymore.

When she pours him a drink after hours, she learns that Johnny knows a Honeybee. He’s too drunk to be embarrassed and gives her more than enough information to go on. Almost all the girls at the Honeybee are named after flowers. A few after flowering fruit trees. Johnny’s Honeybee is one of those girls. Her name is Cherry.

When Cherry opens the door to her tiny apartment, Tifa immediately notices her hair: light pink, just like the blushing blossom (what had her mother called them? _Sakura_ ). Like all Honeybee girls, Cherry is young, pretty, and tired. What sets her apart is her sharpness, how quickly she can read a situation, a person. And so when Tifa pries her fingers off the buttons on her blouse, she’s immediately suspicious. Tifa tells Cherry she doesn’t want any of her services, that she just wants to talk. And though she makes a point to tiptoe carefully around her words, Cherry tells her nothing, giving only vague answers to her questions.

It takes her a few visits to earn Cherry’s trust. That and compensation for her time, calculated down to the minute. But Tifa is patient. Slowly but surely, Cherry starts to open up. It helps that Tifa shows her hand first, talking about herself as freely as any of her bar patrons would. The language of exchange is one that Cherry understands. Trust for trust. Tifa tries her best to not make every session feel like a transaction.

Eventually, she learns that Cherry’s one of the few Honeybees who has a client on the Upper Plate.

“He’s the only Upper Plater I ever agree to see,” she says as she pours herself a glass of vodka. She fills another and offers it to Tifa.

“I thought they were in high demand.” Tifa takes a sip. The vodka is cheap and burns all the way down.

“They’re never worth the money, in my opinion. But this one’s nice. Passive. Less of a dick than most Shinra guys, probably ‘cause he grew up here.” Cherry adjusts the belt on her silk robe. Tifa notices the light smattering of freckles all across her chest. “No matter how high you climb, you can’t ever wash the slums off.”

Tifa stretches and leans back against the headboard. Cherry’s bed is firm and comfortable. She tries not to think about the other bodies that have been on the mattress. “Does he ever talk about work?”

Cherry turns away from her vanity to face Tifa. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

Tifa shrugs.

“Yeah, sometimes. Mostly, he complains. Poor guy’s stuck in middle management, so nothing juicy, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s alright.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not really.” That isn’t what she’s been working up to. Tifa drains the glass and sets it on the bedside table. The moment feels right. “Listen, Cherry, do you know anything about underage girls or boys working at the Honeybee?”

Cherry’s ice blue eyes dart to hers. “Of course. It’s a whorehouse. That comes with the territory. A lot of the girls lie about their age just to get hired.”

Tifa knows she’s onto something. “I’m talking about something more unusual, specifically involving high level Shinra clients.”

Cherry sets down her glass and crosses her arms defensively. “I might,” she says quietly. Tifa watches as her expression goes dark, waits. “They’re disgusting,” she finally spits out.

Tifa scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “We might be able to do something about it, my friends and I.”

“I doubt it. It’s bigger than you think.”

“Well, at the very least, we can out the Shinra scum for what they are.”

Cherry is quiet. She traces the rim of her glass with a perfectly manicured finger. Tifa lets her sit with the offer; she can make up her own mind.

Suddenly, she sits up, back straight. “There are hidden cameras in every room at the Honeybee,” she says. “Mostly for safety reasons, but in some cases, for … insurance, you could say.”

That’s her in. “Do you think you could gain access to those recordings?”

Cherry sets down her glass. Stands up and joins Tifa on the bed. Her movements are slow, limbs languid and moving like liquid. “I might. For a price.”

“Naturally,” Tifa says. She fishes out a silver credit chip and thumb drive from her pocket. She presses the chip into Cherry’s open palm. “This is half. You’ll get the other half when you fill this up,” she holds up the thumb drive, “with footage from those cameras.”

Cherry slips both items into the pocket of her robe. “This is real risky business, you know,” she says with a coy smile.

“I know. Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you.” Cherry playfully touches the tip of Tifa’s nose with her forefinger. Her expression suddenly turns wistful. It's subtle, like a ripple on water. “I knew one of those girls. She was like a little sister to me.”

Tifa doesn’t know what to say. Cherry crosses her legs, smooths a wrinkle from her silk robe.

“She was from Gongaga. Met a guy who swept her off her feet. Promised her a new life, a new job in a big city. That’s how they get all their younger girls. She didn’t know what she was signing up for. She …” Her voice trails off. She picks at a thread that’s come loose from an embroidered rose near the hem of her robe.

Tifa leans in. “I’m sorry,” she says simply. The words sound so clumsy, but she means them. She doesn’t know if there's anything else she can say.

Cherry looks up, smiles. “You’re a good one.” Her face leans in close, closer, and kisses her softly on the mouth. Tifa is speechless, too flustered to speak.

Cherry laughs at the shocked look on Tifa’s face and pats her cheek. “Sorry, sweetness. Just habit, I guess.”

 

—

After leaving Cherry’s apartment, Tifa decides to pay the Honeybee Manor a visit. She has enough gil to gain entrance as a customer and she wants to scope things out, see exactly how much risk Cherry is taking on for her sake.

The Honeybee is garish, even by Wall Market standards. Flickering pink neon signs advertise the sweetest girls in Midgar. The façade predictably features a bumblebee motif, wide-eyed ingénues with striped hourglass figures. Fat, cartoonish droplets of neon yellow honey wink on and off. Tifa pushes past two men, ignoring the whispered catcalls and the cheap whiskey on their breath.

All it takes is a flash of gil and the bouncer lets her inside. In the back of her mind, she wonders how many of their clients are women. If it’s uncommon, the bouncer doesn’t show it. Gil, the universal language, she thinks. She tries not to feel dirty as she walks through the cloth banners.

It’s cleaner than she expected. A television screen is mounted above a yellow backlit bar, cycling through what she can only assume are the working girls for the evening. Lily, Daisy, Apple, Poppy, Rose, Dahlia. Platinum hair, pink lips, button nose, green eyes, blue eyes, black hair, red lips.

She orders a glass of house white and tries to ignore the other customers at the bar. Honeybee girls linger, taking turns approaching each of the patrons. The lounge appears to be a matchmaking area, where a client and the Honeybee of his choice pair off. She watches as an older man with white hair is escorted down the hall by a tall, blonde girl in heels.

Tifa nurses her drink. It hasn’t even been five minutes when she notices a man just a few seats staring at her. He gets up and moves seats until he’s right next to her. She tries not to bristle.

“Hey, do you work here?”

Tifa keeps her gaze focused straight ahead. If she doesn’t look at him, maybe he’ll get the message. “No.”

“Oh? That’s … too bad.” She can hear him consider his next words. His voice lowers. “You’re prettier than any of the girls here. I bet you could make—”

Tifa considers punching him. “I’m a paying customer,” she says loudly, making eye contact with the bartender. “So please let me enjoy my drink. Alone.” As if on cue, the bartender—a tall man with a large frame and close-cropped hair—approaches.

“Ah, of course, miss. Sorry.” The man backs away, taking his drink back to wherever he was sitting before.

Tifa notices a pretty girl with heavily made up green eyes farther down to her left. She makes eye contact by accident and curses softly under her breath when the Honeybee takes it as a cue to approach.

“Hi there,” the girl’s voice is honeyed, heavily practiced.

“Um, hi,” Tifa says into her drink.

The Honeybee leans against the bar, trying to get a closer look at her. No point in hiding now.

“Looking for company?”

Best to play along. Perhaps as a nervous first-timer, which in a way, she is. “Maybe,” she says in her most innocent voice. She forces a coquettish laugh.

“First time here?”

Tifa nods wordlessly, attempting at shyness.

“I’m Iris.” She touches Tifa lightly on the forearm. “What’s your name?”

“... Jessie.” Tifa silently apologizes to her friend for not coming up with a better pseudonym on the fly.

“Well, Jessie,” Iris says, running a finger down Tifa’s bare bicep. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Um.”

Just then, a new customer walks through the cloth banners. He looks different from the rest—grey pinstriped suit, polished oxfords, slicked back hair. One of the men at the doors greets him with an exaggerated bow and swiftly escorts him down the main hallway.

“Yes, I would,” Tifa says, allowing Iris to take her by the hand. She notices that Iris purposefully slows her footsteps until there’s a good amount of distance between them and the two men.

“Where are we going?” Tifa asks.

Iris turns to smile, her eyebrow arched playfully. “We have a special room for first-timers. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

They split off to the right, away from where the men are headed.

“Where are those guys going?” Iris pretends not to hear her.

“They look fancy,” Tifa says. She keeps her voice light and curious.

Iris’s strut quickens. “Even if you could afford it, honey, there’s nothing in there you’d like.”

They arrive at a pair of double doors painted pink. Iris pushes them open and turns around to face Tifa, pulling her through with both hands . The room is surprisingly large and outfitted with a spacious bed, tiled hot tub, and mini fridge.

Iris pulls Tifa onto the king-sized bed. It feels a lot more comfortable than her own, despite the sleazy satin sheets. She spreads her palm open on glossy black—they’re silky.

Iris touches her face and leans in to close the distance between them. Tifa catches her hand and turns her cheek. She’s had enough of strange girls trying to kiss her for one day.

“Sorry, but … I’m not ready for this,” she says awkwardly.

Iris laces their fingers together. “Okay, what can I do help you get ready?”

Tifa gently untangles their hands. “Not tonight. Maybe next time. Let’s just sit together. How much time do we have?”

“One hour.”

“Okay, one hour. You don’t have to ... do anything. I’ll still pay, of course.”

Iris looks puzzled for a moment, then leans back and shrugs. “Alright. If you want, I guess. Easiest grand I ever made.” She taps her foot, looks around the room. “You want a drink? Or maybe soak in the hot tub, at least? You can use whatever you want in the room while we’re on the clock.”

Tifa glances sidelong at the hot tub. She hasn’t seen or used a bathtub in … years. Gleaming tile, porcelain scrubbed clean, roomy and deep. The complete opposite of the mildew-spotted shower back at home. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Go for it.” At this point, it’s clear Iris has dropped her seductress act.

The Honeybee's eyes follow her as Tifa makes her way across the room to the hot tub. She removes her jacket and turns around to find the other girl still watching.

“Um.”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” Iris says. She turns her back and busies herself with the mini fridge. “So damn shy.”

Tifa finishes removing the rest of her clothes and steps into tub. She turns on the faucet. Behind her, she hears the sound of ice cubes being dropped into a glass. The tub fills up quickly and she leans back with her eyes closed, savoring the feel of the jets bubbling into the muscles of her back.

The bright, clear sound of glass on porcelain interrupts her thoughts. Tifa opens her eyes. Iris has set down a glass of brown liquor on ice. She's peering down at Tifa.

“Don’t drink too fast. Don’t wanna drown.” Iris brushes Tifa’s bangs from her damp forehead. She's wearing a bemused smile. “How old are you anyway?”

Tifa reaches for the glass. Water drips off her arm. “Nineteen.”

Iris chuckles. “Just a baby.”

 

—

Tifa’s hair is still wet when she exits the Honeybee. The night air feels deliciously chill on her warmed skin.

Scouting the manor had been a good idea. Once again, her instincts bore fruit. Now she knew for certain that the sender of the anonymous e-mail was telling the truth.

“Tifa?”

Aerith is standing in front of her, holding a basket of flowers. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even see her.

“Oh, hey.” She imagines what this must look like to Aerith. This is the last place she expected to run into her.

“What are you …” Aerith’s expression quickly changes from one of surprise to that of mischief. “Tifa, I never knew you had it in you.”

Tifa’s face grows hot. “No, I wasn’t. This isn’t—” Aerith is grinning at her like a cheshire cat. “It’s not what it looks like!”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’ll … explain later. Anyway, what are you doing here?”

“Business.” She motions to the flowers. “A lot of these guys are real suckers. I can sell my flowers for 500 gil a pop.”

Aerith reaches into the basket. “I’ll give you one for free, though.” She hands Tifa a pretty pink blossom, its tiny petals kissed with red.

“Oh, thanks.” Tifa twirls it in her fingers. “My shift at the bar is about to start. Walk with me?”

Aerith looks a little surprised and for a moment, Tifa second-guesses herself. “Unless you’re busy, of course.”

“Nope. I’ve got nothing to do. I’m a free woman.”

Tifa laughs. “Okay, great.”

They talk all the way to Sector 7. Tifa tells her a little bit about the e-mail Avalanche received, about Cherry and the Honeybee Manor, while leaving out some of the more graphic details. If Aerith is surprised, she doesn’t show it. It’s an uncomfortable topic and she allows Tifa to change topics soon after.

Aerith stays at Seventh Heaven through her entire shift, content to sit at the bar and chat with Tifa when she isn’t busy with customers. She’s warm and friendly to the rest of the group, even managing to get Barret to break into uncharacteristic laughter with a joke or two. Tifa pours her drinks all night and is surprised to find out that she isn’t the lightweight she’d expected her to be.

When the last of the late night stragglers leave after last call, Tifa joins her on the other side of the bar.

Aerith is a little tipsy, her cheeks rosy. “You look good,” she says, head tilted to the side. Her green eyes are always so intense. “Healthy. Your eyes are clear.”

Tifa takes an uneasy sip of her hard-earned drink. “Thanks.” She isn’t sure how to respond because she’s still a little embarrassed over their confrontation weeks ago.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Not quite ‘good,’ but getting there,” she admits.

“I’m so glad.”

Tifa finds herself returning to the events from earlier in the day. Now that her hands are idle, she can’t keep her thoughts at bay.

“Hey,” Aerith says, waving a hand in front of Tifa’s eyes. “Where’d you go?”

Tifa blinks. “Oh, sorry. I’m just thinking about what happened today.”

Aerith hums. “The girls at the Honeybee?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s terrible.”

Tifa sighs. “I just think … that could be me, you know?” Aerith nods, waits for her to continue. “When I came to Midgar, I was 15 years old with nothing to my name. What happened to these girls … could have easily happened to me.”

For a moment, Aerith looks like she’s someplace far away. “It’s hard to think about,” she says finally, her voice soft.

“I know we’re helping them, in a way. But it doesn’t feel like enough.” Tifa swirls her drink. The ice moves around, clinking softly against cold glass. She freezes when she feels Aerith’s fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re brave, you know that?”

“What do you mean?” She takes another sip, tries to hide behind her drink.

“I feel like I don’t know the first thing about helping people.”

Tifa shakes her head. “I don’t. Not really.”

“Whatever you say,” Aerith says with a smile. “Try not to dwell on it too much, though?”

“Easier said than done.”

Aerith drains her bottle of beer and claps her hands together. “Then let’s find a way to distract you.” She hums in thought. “Should we play a game? A drinking game?”

“A game?”

“Yeah, you’re a bartender. Don’t tell me you don’t know any good drinking games.”

Tifa’s drawing a blank. “Uh …”

“Fine, hm.” Aerith points at her with the empty beer bottle. “Spin the bottle?”

“But it’s just us.”

Aerith sighs. “Okay.” She looks around the bar. “How about pinball? Does that thing even work?”

Tifa turns to look at the machine. It was Jessie’s brilliant idea to use the retro game as the entrance to their secret basement. Wedge liked to play whenever he was bored, but she’d actually never tried it herself.

“It works. Jessie restored it herself.”

Aerith hops off her stool and takes her by the hand. Tifa nearly tumbles off her seat; she’s surprisingly strong.

When they reach the pinball machine, Aerith releases her hand to rifle through the pockets of her jacket. “I don’t think I have any change,” she says.

“Oh, that’s okay.” Tifa squats and searches under the machine. “There’s a switch somewhere under here that’ll let us play for free.” Her fingers find the small metal switch and she flicks it on. “There we go.”

Aerith presses the round ‘start’ button and the pinball machine comes to life, melodic metal bells chiming, blue and gold lights blinking and flashing. They play through the night until their buzz wears off and Tifa realizes it’s been far too long since she had any fun. It’s a welcome reprieve, lending much needed levity to what feels like years’ worth of heavy, unbroken days.


	8. Concrete Angel

Tifa isn’t sure why she agreed to come tonight, but Jessie was always good at getting her way.

The basement is hot and crowded and so very loud. Bodies bump into her from every which way and next to her, Biggs and Wedge are jumping and thrashing erratically to the dissonant music coming out of the cheap amps just a few feet away. Basement punk shows were never her thing, but they made for great recruiting grounds for Avalanche. It also helped that the venue changed every time—these parties were always thrown together messily to avoid catching attention from the wrong people. Direct action. Organized chaos. It’s how they met Wedge.

But tonight, they’re not looking to add to the ranks; they’re celebrating. Cherry came through with the goods—all the grisly footage captured on one tiny drive. Tens of Shinra executives, hours and hours’ worth of very illegal activity… Tifa couldn’t bring herself to watch it all. What she’d seen was more than enough.

A particularly pointy elbow catches her hard on the shoulder, interrupting her thoughts. She drops the cup she was holding and foamy beer spills slick onto the floor. “Hey—” The guy who knocked into her doesn’t even hear. It’s then that she notices a flash of familiar green amongst the sweaty, flailing limbs.

It’s Aerith.

Aerith stops in her tracks and waves. “Tifa!”

The same man rams hard into Aerith, knocking her to the ground. Tifa winces and squeezes past the indifferent bodies to help her up off the scuffed floor. When she sees the culprit mindlessly thrashing in her direction, she elbows him hard in the face. Cartilage crunches under bone—a little too hard, maybe. He snaps out of his trance for a split second before grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Thank you,” he shouts, blood pouring from his nose. “I wanted to feel something tonight!”

“Okay, buddy,” she yells. She pushes him back with a firm palm to the chest. “Glad to be of help.”

Aerith’s fingers wrap around her wrist and suddenly Tifa’s being led away from the crowd. Which is fine; she needed a break anyway.

Aerith doesn’t let go until they’re standing side-by-side at the makeshift bar—if you could even call it that. The bartender—a thin man with shaggy hair and sprawling tattoos—pours beer into two large plastic cups.

Before Tifa has a chance to take a sip, Aerith snatches the cup from her hand. Takes a long sip while holding her gaze with those unwavering green eyes. They take a turn for the sly.

“Are you even allowed to drink?” She turns to the bartender, mischief coloring her expression. “Barkeep, are you aware this young girl is underaged?”

He doesn’t respond save for the raise of an eyebrow. Tifa tries to sputter out a response.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m 19.” She remembers how old she is, at least.

“What’s that? 18?” Aerith is still smirking. She takes another drink of her— _Tifa’s_ —beer.

“No, 19.”

Aerith leans in close. “12? You’re literally 12.” She addresses the bartender once more. “Have you ever seen a 12-year-old slamming back beers? Man, you’re hard.” This manages to draw a laugh out of him.

Tifa is smiling in spite of herself. “Give that back,” she says. She swipes the cup from Aerith’s hand. Aerith just grins at her and bumps into her shoulder. Tifa isn’t sure when exactly this started happening, these small displays of affection. When did they get comfortable, familiar enough to exchange such gestures?

“What are you even doing here?” she asks. Tifa is genuinely curious.

“A girl gets bored every now and then. And you can hear these parties a mile away.” Aerith gestures towards an empty corner near the bar. “I can barely hear you, though, come on.”

Aerith leans against the bare wall and watches her with that same intense gaze.

“Aerith, are you already drunk?”

“That’s definitely possible.” She takes another sip. “Thanks for saving me back there, hero.”

“No problem. You can find some real… intense people here. Most of them are goods folks, though.” Still, she hadn’t expected to run into Aerith here of all places. “Is this your kind of scene?”

“It’s not my cup of tea, no, but I need the noise sometimes. The sensations. Sometimes, I get sick of the quiet, you know?”

Tifa can’t really relate. She’s never gotten used to the constant noise of Midgar. That ever-present, low-level buzz of traffic, overlapping voices, mako cables humming. She misses the quiet of mountains, the soft chirp of insects and birds that accompany the cool, silent blue of dusk and dawn. Back then, she could hear herself think more clearly.

“Hello, is anyone home?” Aerith’s voice is sudden and teasing.

“Oh, sorry.” She looks up. Aerith reaches out and presses a finger to her cheek. By instinct, Tifa catches her hand. A moment passes before she realizes she hasn’t let go.

“Whoa, hey, Aerith!” Biggs’ voice snaps her out of it. Jessie and Wedge join in, crowding their little quiet corner.

“Funny seeing you in a place like this,” Jessie says. She’s removed her red headband. Her forehead is damp with sweat.

“I could say the same about you.”

“No way, Jessie loves stuff like this,” Wedge says. He’s red in the face, likely from throwing himself around in the pit. “You should’ve seen the last one of these we went to.”

Jessie laughs. “That was a time.”

“Jessie’s idea of fun is a bit unorthodox.” Biggs elbows Jessie gently in the side, a look of mock disapproval on his face.

“Oh my god, don’t remind me,” Tifa says. They’d barely escaped that party by the skin of their teeth.

“Oh?” Aerith’s curiosity is piqued. “I think it’s story time.”

“The show was even louder than this one. So loud that Shinra grunts came to shut it down,” Biggs says. Jessie is laughing into her beer.

“See, the venue last time was a real piece-of-shit relic. One of the last remaining homes powered by gas instead of mako. And right as they’re starting to arrest people…”

Jessie makes a ‘kaboom’ gesture with her hands, glee written all over her features. “Love that natural gas.”

“Our favorite pyromaniac.” Tifa shakes her head, smiling.

Aerith turns to Jessie. “I like you.” As the laughter dies down, her eyes dart around the room. “Where’s Barret?”

“Papa bear doesn’t party,” Biggs answers. “Come to think of it, Tifa doesn’t really, either. Guess we got lucky tonight.” He winks at Tifa and she promptly rolls her eyes.

Suddenly, Wedge raises his cup, nearly spilling his drink in the process. “Hey, guys, let’s cheers!”

“What’s the occasion?” Aerith asks.

“We’re celebrating! For locking down our next big job—”

Tifa slaps him on the shoulder. “Wedge,” she warns.

“Yeah, man, no talk around civs.” Biggs hooks an arm around him.

It’s too late. Aerith never misses a thing. “What’s this now?”

“Tifa’s going topside!’ Wedge blurts out.

“Seriously, dude!” Biggs pulls him into a headlock.

Aerith turns to Tifa. “Topside? How?”

Tifa looks at her helplessly. “We… haven’t quite figured that part out yet.”

A loud banging upstairs and suddenly Shinra footsoldiers are pouring into the crowded basement.

Jessie whips around. “Shit!” Tifa throws her cup to the ground and readies to run like the wind when she notices Aerith filching an empty bottle from the floor.

“I’ve always wanted to get into a bar fight.” That impish smile. Tifa grabs the bottle from her hand—in the moment, she’s grateful for her quick instincts. “Not tonight, okay? Otherwise your mom is going to have to post bail.”

Aerith pouts. With all the dexterity of a cat, Jessie snatches the bottle from Tifa’s hand and hurls it at the closest Shinra grunt, catching him on the head.

“Jessie, what the fuck—”

Tifa grabs Aerith’s hand and they all sprint for the emergency door behind the makeshift stage.

“See?” Aerith shouts. “I like her!”

They manage to escape, just barely. When they’ve put enough distance between themselves and the ruckus, Aerith asks Tifa to walk her back home. They split off to their separate corners of the neon-drenched night.

The walk to Aerith’s home is quiet. Adrenaline has burned off most of the alcohol in her blood, leaving Tifa swimming in a new kind of sensation that warms and cools all over. As they reach the narrow wooden bridge leading to the house, Aerith turns on her heel.

“Let’s go sit in the garden for a bit. I don’t want to go in just yet.”

It’s beyond late, but Tifa can’t help but oblige her. Aerith stretches her arms and spreads out in a patch of yellow and white flowers, her back cushioned gently by soft grass. Tifa sits down next to her and brushes her palm over the closed petals of a particularly large blossom.

From her spot on the ground, Aerith points with a languid arm towards the plate above their heads. “If you squint, you can see some stars in that gap over there.” Tifa scours the dark metal until her eyes catch on a faint glimmer. The tiny scrap of stars is enough to make her heart ache, drudging up the sort of longing she thought she’d long abandoned.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw an entire constellation,” she says.

Aerith hums thoughtfully beside her. “That’s more than I’ve ever seen in my life, I think.”

She hopes Aerith gets to see them someday. She hopes she herself gets to see them at least one more time before they fade entirely from memory. A life that included the splendor of the open night sky already feels so far away. Secret promises, the excitement of a water tower—moments she once held near to her heart. Now, she can hardly remember how those memories made her feel.

“There was a boy I used to love,” Aerith says, her voice newly soft. “A real sweet guy. Special.”

“Yeah?” Tifa isn’t sure what to say.

“He was in SOLDIER, if you can believe it.” A harsh breath escapes her. “I haven’t seen him in years. He just disappeared one day. Went off on a mission and never came back.”

Tifa leans back until she’s lying down next to Aerith, their bodies nearly flush. Being so close to the earth is a surprising comfort. Flowers and grass and leaves tickle against her skin. There’s a freshness in the air. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that she’s somewhere else, somewhere far away from Midgar and its poison mako heart.

“Why do boys always have to run off like that? What’s so great about being a hero?” She’s surprised at the words coming from her own mouth. Being near Aerith has that effect. She says so much without even realizing it.

“I knew a boy who left home to join SOLDIER. It was his dream. We were teenagers then. I wonder what he’s doing now? What he’s like…”

Aerith sighs. “Their eyes glow, you know. From the mako.” Tifa knows and remembers clearly, but lets her continue. “Sometimes, it was hard to look at him. Into his eyes, I mean. Even in his gentlest moments, I had to turn away. It felt… unnatural. Like I was looking at more than just him. But I never said anything. I didn’t want him to feel less than, even if it scared me sometimes.”

“Was he a good guy?” Tifa can’t help herself.

“The best. Sweet, kind, a little dumb, but always well-meaning.”

Tifa’s conscience feels heavy on her chest, like it’s trying to press straight through her and into the dirt. “I’m always afraid I’ll run into him...” Her voice trails off. She knows she doesn’t have to explain.

A recent memory comes to her. It’s vivid: SOLDIER, third class, a hard, cold blade drawing hot blood from her thigh. The recollection shimmers, then settles into the shadow of an older memory. The length of steel grows and thins into a different kind of blade. SOLDIER, first class, red heat searing across her chest like a streak of embers. And all around her, smoke and ashes.

“What would he think of me now, chipping away at the very face of his dreams.” Tifa genuinely wonders how she’d feel if she saw him again. Again, her thoughts spill out of her before she can stop her lips from moving. “Would I hate him? Would he hate me?”

She hears Aerith shift in the grass. Before she knows it, green eyes are staring down at her. Aerith brushes the hair from her forehead with a gentleness that gives Tifa pause.

“How could anyone hate you?”

 

—

 

A delivery boy arrives at Seventh Heaven in the middle of the day bearing a small package. It’s unmarked, with no return address. Tifa is the only one who isn’t suspicious, tearing open the wrapping while the rest of Avalanche holds their breath.

She holds a silver necklace in her hands. The pendant is simple and polished—a smooth circle with an elegant, engraved pattern. It’s similar in size and shape to a credit chip. When Tifa it over in her hand, she finds a curious divot on the back in the shape of a rectangle.

The necklace comes with a note: the address of a topside club and instructions on how to attach a thumb drive to the pendant. _Wear this to Club Lappland_ , it says, _so I know that it’s you_. The hand-off will happen at the club—thumb drive for thumb drive, photos and videos for reactor maps—and then they’ll go their separate ways. Mr. Anonymous has thrown in another heaping of gil to sweeten this last leg of their deal.

Jessie’s heard of Lappland. “It’s pretty exclusive. Expensive cocktails, go-go dancers, loud electronic music, private rooms… typical topsider crap.”

“Sounds fucking awful,” says Biggs. Wedge tries to suppress his laughter.

Tifa sets the necklace down on the bar. “Private rooms?”

“Yeah, for the high-rollers. You can book one-on-one time with any of Lappland’s dancers.”

“I see…”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m not.” Tifa isn’t sure why Jessie still thinks of her as some naïve, backwater girl. She decides to change subjects. “Any new leads on how to get me to the upper plate?”

“Yeah, any progress on that pass, Jessie?” Tifa can tell the impending mission is making Barret nervous. She wonders if it’s because they’re that much closer to hitting those big goals he always liked to talk about.

Jessie sighs. Wedge pushes a bowl of chips down the bar in her direction. She takes a chip and chews anxiously. “No. I think I’ve hit my limits in terms of identity fraud. Upper plate passes aren’t as simple as fake IDs, unfortunately.”

“What about our contact? Can’t he throw us a bone?” Biggs asks.

Tifa shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem like he’s willing take any unnecessary risks. I’m sure Shinra keeps a watchful eye. We don’t want to scare him off by asking for more favors.”

“We don’t to come off as anything other than capable, either,” Barret says. “Well, damn.”

He’s frustrated. So is she. This can’t have all been for naught. They sit in silence as Tifa turns idea after idea over in her head, each one of them a failure, fizzling out as quickly as they appeared. She holds up the necklace and lets the chain dangle from her fingers. The pendant catches the light. It glimmers like a coin—bright, taunting silver.

A knock at the door and the silence curdles into tension. It’s daytime. They aren’t expecting any visitors.

Tifa walks over to the door and stands in front of it, waiting. The stranger on the other side knocks again. Tifa holds her breath and reaches for the doorknob. Then, a voice: “Tifa? It’s Aerith.”

She opens the door a crack. “Hey. We’re kind of in the middle of something…”

Aerith flashes an object in front of her face. She can’t believe what she’s seeing: it’s an upper plate pass.

“How did you—”

Aerith pushes the door open and steps inside. Tifa would be surprised, but this is Aerith. She breezes past her and walks up to the bar, grabbing a stool next to Barret. Tifa follows.

“I want to help. Is this what you guys need?” She slaps the shiny plastic pass down on the bar.

Jessie reaches over and grabs it. “You have amazing timing.” She holds the pass up to the light. “Holy shit, this is real, isn’t it? Where did you even get this? It’s assigned to your name.”

“Is it customary to question good fortune?”

“No,” Barret says. Jessie hands him the pass. “But I make a habit of being cautious.” He examines the object with slow, careful eyes. “This looks Shinra approved. Why do you have something like this?”

Tifa thinks back to when she first met Aerith and to their conversation months ago in her garden. All she knows is that Aerith is mixed up with the Turks. She’s tried her best not to pry, but unlike herself, Barret won’t be as patient with Aerith’s usual deflections.

“It’s a long story. But I’ve had that for years. I haven’t had any reason to use it until now.”

Barret continues to push. “What are your ties to Shinra?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Aerith slumps in her seat. “Don’t you trust me? I’ve helped you guys countless times.”

This time, Tifa speaks up. “This is different, Aerith. I’m not even sure we should be getting you involved so directly like this.” She tries to ignore the disappointed look on her face.

“Are you seriously thinking about throwing out our only chance at this?” Jessie looks back and forth between Tifa and Barret, incredulous.

“Jessie, stay out of it.” Tifa’s surprised at herself.

Barret slides the pass down the bar and back to Aerith. “She’s right. This is too dangerous. I like you, Aerith. Hell, I might even trust you. But we can’t have you tangled up in this. This is our business.” Jessie curses under her breath.

Barret gets up from his seat. “Sorry. I appreciate you coming down here, but I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“I used to be under Shinra custody.” The words come out fast and harsh. “But I’m not anymore.” Tifa turns to look at her. “Right now I have a… standing invitation to return. But it’s purely voluntary. If I go back, it’ll on my terms.”

Months of wondering and there it is. A history with a shared enemy. That common ground she could sense, but never confirm. Everything with Aerith is easy except for answers. There’s more there, she knows it. This is just one small piece of a much larger puzzle. As open as Aerith is, mystery permeates the very air around her. There’s so much Tifa doesn’t know, and if she’s being honest, so much she wants to know. That impenetrable softness is what stops her from pushing too hard—from pushing at all.

Nobody knows what to say. They’re all rendered silent by that sudden display of trust.

Barret slowly sits back down. “I’m still not sure about this,” he finally says, though his voice gives him away. He’s been worn down the right amount, just enough that he could be convinced.

Jessie sees her opening. She’s always been better at leading him to water. “Citizens with travel passes have an easy time bringing others along with them. All we’d need is a fake ID for Tifa and a believable story. I can handle the first part easily.”

“Alright, let’s hear it then. What’s the cover story? Gimme some ideas.”

“We already have a Shinra-certified pass. They hand those out to middle and upper management like candy. Aerith just has to look the part.”

Aerith perks up. “Office lady? I can do that. A blazer and skirt. Shouldn’t be too hard to put together.”

Barret nods. “And what about Tifa? She’s the one we need up top.”

Tifa wonders if she even gets a say in any of this. She’s hesitant to drag Aerith into their mess, but it’s too late now.

“She’ll be my escort.”

A quiet settles over the group.

Tifa quirks an eyebrow. “Escort? As in bodyguard?”

The mischievous smile returns and as apprehensive as she is, Tifa is glad to see it. “No, as in _escort_. You can be my, ah, honeybee.”

Nobody knows what to say. Jessie is the first to break. “Oh, that is just too good,” she says, laughing.

Tifa can feel the heat rising to her face. “What?”

Biggs is laughing, too. “Brilliant. It’s hard to get Tifa into a believable disguise because she’s usually too pretty for that.”

She feels so warm all of a sudden. When she opens her mouth, she can’t even string together a proper sentence. “I—stop it.”

“Remember her high school get-up?” Jessie is grinning from ear to ear. She just can’t help herself, can she? Tifa considers punching her.

Instead, she just garbles out more nonsense. “Don’t—” Does Aerith even remember? She was wearing that humiliating outfit when they first met over a year ago.

“The hoodie with the cat ears? The giant fuzzy headphones?” Wedge has joined in on the teasing. Even Barret is laughing. She’s half a mind to knock out all of them.

“I think she’s getting mad. Why don’t we take it easy on her?” Aerith’s eyes look brilliant in the light. “I guess it’s official, then. You and me—we’re going topside.”

Tifa isn’t sure how she feels about any of this. But it’s out of her hands, now.

 

—

 

Aerith and Tifa sit on Cherry’s bed while she rummages through her closet. They stopped at Cherry’s after shopping in the priciest district in Sector 6. They walked out of the boutique with a black blouse, pinstriped blazer and skirt, and black heels. Tifa couldn’t believe the price tag, but thanks to their anonymous client, money was no issue.

Tifa’s surprised that Cherry even let them into her apartment—after all, it’s her first time meeting Aerith. But Aerith seems to have a way with people.

It might have to do with the fact that she shoved a small bouquet of flowers under Cherry’s nose before she had a chance to protest. _Flowers? For a honeybee?_ Cherry asked. _Is this your idea of a joke?_

Cherry lays out three dresses on the bed. “This is the best I can do.” She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “The difference between an escort and a whore is that whores don’t go topside. You’re going to need to class it up a bit.”

Tifa pores over each option. Plastic hangers click gently against each other as she weighs one dress against another. One red, one black, one deep blue.

“Can I see the black one?” Tifa hands the dress to Aerith. She examines it with a discerning eye. “This is it. This is the one.”

“Nice,” Cherry says. “Little black dress. Classic.”

The dress is surprisingly modest. Judging by the silhouette, Tifa can tell that it cuts close to the figure. The fabric feels nice—silk, maybe satin. She wonders where Cherry got it. Maybe her Shinra client?

“The size might not be perfect. Our figures are a bit… different.” Cherry eyes her up and down. “I think it’ll fit, but you should try it on.”

“Right here?”

Cherry laughs softly. “Someone like you has no business being this shy.”

Tifa has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Aerith laughs into the back of her hand. “She’s right.”

“What?”

“Oh, go on. I don’t have all day. I am a working girl, you know,” Cherry says. She shoves the dress in Tifa’s direction.

Tifa tries her best not to be embarrassed as she begins to shed her clothes. To her relief, it doesn’t appear that Aerith and Cherry are watching.

“Aerith, was it? I think I’ve seen you around the manor.”

“Oh? Probably. Business is great in Wall Market. Customers pay a premium for my flowers.” Tifa pulls her top over her head and slides on the dress. Black spills down her figure. She smooths down the fabric. It feels pleasant on her skin. Aerith glances at her before quickly looking away.

Cherry leans back against her vanity. “A lot of guys are wondering if you’ll sell your flower, if you know what I mean.”

Aerith crinkles her nose. “Ew.”

Tifa steps forward. The dress is a bit snug in places, but for the most part, it fits. They turn around to look at her.

“Wow,” Aerith breathes.

 

—

 

When Aerith comes downstairs for breakfast, she’s surprised to find a familiar face sitting at the dining table with her mother. Tseng. She hasn’t seen him in over a year.

She feels foolish for assuming that time and distance had earned her freedom. No—Tseng tells her she has until her birthday to make a decision. It isn’t so much of a decision as it is a demand. Shinra’s Science Research division has made recent strides and they need her help. Again, she’s reminded that she’s merely a stepping stone for some higher power. A way forward, they used to tell her. So that everyone may prosper.

Tseng tells her the choice is hers, but Aerith recognizes the lie for what it is. The threat is clear. Once she turns 22, her life will become much harder should she choose against her best interests. She thinks of her mother, and the all the other voices calling to her from beyond the green. Spectres that remind her that even if she were to evade Shinra’s grasp once more, another path waits for her on the other side. One that’s just as predetermined as the one she’s trying to avoid.

She can’t run forever.

When Tseng walks out the door, she’s surprised to find Tifa waiting at the footbridge. Tseng walks past her without a word and Tifa’s gaze follows him for every step until he’s well out of sight.

Aerith regains her composure and settles into a more presentable version of herself, one that her friend might recognize. She’s holding a small brown bag. “I thought you might want to have lunch.” It’s more a question than a statement.

They eat in the garden, exchanging few words between bites. Tifa’s skilled at cooking. It’s another new and precious fact that doesn’t surprise her at all. When they’re finished eating, Aerith can practically feel Tifa gearing herself up to ask her questions she’s not ready to answer. Aerith decides to get ahead of it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about the scar on your chest.”

Tifa is struck. They’ve never talked about this. Her hand ghosts over clavicle, eyes lost in thought. “The day Nibelheim disappeared… courtesy of Shinra’s greatest SOLDIER.”

Aerith is almost sorry she asked. She’s even sorrier for the question she’s about to ask. “Does it keep you going? The memory of what you lost?”

Tifa takes a minute. Her hands fiddle with a particularly long blade of grass. “I think so, yeah, in a way. It gives me purpose. Maybe that’s why I hang onto this hate. Otherwise, I’d have to really think about what I want to make of my life.”

“Isn’t the sun reason enough to get up in the morning?”

“What sun? There’s no sun down here.”

Except there is. At least in her private little corner of Midgar. The flowers prove that much. All the beautiful green around them. That should be enough, or at least that’s what she tells herself every day. The voices beg to differ.

“Aerith?”

“Yeah?”

“What was that Turk doing here?”

Aerith swallows. Her throat is dry. She answers with another question. “Do you ever want to run away?”

Tifa looks at her. “I can’t ever get a straight answer from you, can I?” Her smile is sad. It almost hurts to look at her.

“My path is clear. I can see it and it’s right in front of me, but I keep taking detours. But the more I ignore it, the clearer it becomes.” Aerith looks up to meet her gaze, holds it for good measure, because she wants her to know that she’s trying. “I want to be brave. How can I be brave?”

“I don’t know.”

From the outside, it would appear dangerous for someone like her to get mixed up with someone like Tifa. Except Aerith knows the truth: she’s the dangerous one. She’s the one who has no business involving anyone else in her messy, confusing life. The voices in her head tell her as much, screaming and prodding about duty and destiny. But she’s so tired of feeling alone and in her weakest moments—moments like this—the weight of all her burdens just isn’t enough to stay her hand. Isn’t enough to keep her away. No matter how hard she tries to suppress it, she wants what she wants. To connect. To share. To not feel so alone all the time.

But as much as she trusts Tifa, Aerith can’t find it in herself to bridge that gap. It would mean being honest with herself first.

Aerith looks at the girl in front of her, desperate for absolution. Tifa’s face is so open. The sunlight catches warm and rich on her skin and her dark, dark hair. She almost looks angelic. Aerith considers acting on the impulse to kiss her just to stop the flood of thoughts from raging on. Deep down, however, she knows the thrill of sensation is a poor substitute for honesty. No, she thinks. It wouldn’t be fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay and thanks to all the readers for the encouragement—it means a lot.


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